


PART II

by Mangerine



Category: World Trigger
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Established Relationship, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-08-28 13:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8448349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mangerine/pseuds/Mangerine
Summary: April is still the cruelest month, pulling men out of trion shells and making them live out the rest of their lives. Five years later, Yuma finds that being twenty is hard, especially when everyone else got a head-start, but he's no quitter.





	1. HE LIVES!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Winter kept us warm, covering   
>  Earth in forgetful snow, feeding   
>  A little life with dried tubers.   
>  Summer surprised us...
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ...And went on in sunlight"  
>   
> -T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land  
> 

** Part I **

Kuga Yuma’s life can be summarized as such:

He is born, then dead at eleven, and simultaneously orphaned.

 

_-intermission-_

 

then undead for a bit, not-quite-sleeping in another dimension.

Five years pass with a measure more joy.

life goes on.

 

A new world, new friends. He loses his oldest friend, he falls in love.

He has a boy he calls his love.

(There’s that whole thing about recovering abducted family and expeditions too, it’s kind of important.)

life goes on.

 

 

×

 

It is an ordinary day

after a round of solo rank wars when the rotund, racoony head of Border’s R&D department approaches him with a fat folder. Heavy in his hands, Yuma flips through the documents, intimidating with long titles,

 **“TRION-FLESH SUBSTITUTION PROCEDURE”** and “ **FITTED PROSTHESES”**

small fonts and

many many numbers.

 

Yuma feels eleven again, grappling with the tenuous possibility of his existence.

Kinuta is a man of science, he doesn’t bring his heart to work, just his brains and objectivity. From what Yuma knows, he left his heart the next town over, with his ex-wife and young daughter.

But for Yuma, his words soften just a little.

“At this point in time, you’ve got a fifty percent chance of making it through, sixty, even, if our diagnosis is accurate — which it is. I’ve got my best people on it, kid, and the choice is all yours.”

Yuma twists his father’s ring left, then right.

“Take your time,” Kinuta says, but the choice is intuitive. The manila folder is a heavy weight in his small hands, and he’s suddenly so tired.

“Take your time,” Kinuta says again. Yuma thanks him and walks home.

 

 

×

 

 

Half a minute into breaking the news, Osamu pulls his knees to his chest and removes his glasses to quietly cry.

They’re alone now in the house they share; Osamu’s mother out on an errand that should take another hour or so. It’s the earliest chance Yuma has to catch his boyfriend alone.

Now, a minute too late, he wonders if he should have taken more time to think this through.

 

Transcript / “WHAT THEY DO NOT SAY”:

“It’s not fair.”

“It never was.”

“We should have gone to the Amusement park and snuck onto the rides I was too short for.”

“We already snuck you into that NC16 movie, and it turned out to be  _awful._ ”

“We could always- well, we couldn’t, but we could always-“

“Don’t go, (what if you don’t return?)”

(“What if I do?”)

“We’re happy  **now.** ”

“Then why are you crying?”

 

Instead, Yuma wordlessly tosses the words, the files, onto the coffee table and pulls Osamu close. Tries and fails in the dying sunlight to ignore how warm Osamu was compared to himself, or how between the both of them, he could only hear one heartbeat.

He’s sorely overdue for apologies, for causing Osamu all this grief, but even now he finds that he isn’t sorry. Not for loving him, and not for taking a fifty percent chance to keep on doing so for the rest of his life. And even if he dies on the operating table, Yuma is content to have this, to have come to Earth, to have met his friends, to have fallen in love.

He has visited his father’s grave in Cawaria. He has made peace. These twenty years were enough, and his only regret is not getting to meet Replica one last time.

What they have the strength to say is this:

“When?”

“Everything can be ready in a week.”

 “I see,” and that’s that.

 

 Neither of them gets much sleep.

 

×

 

He sees Jin the first thing the next day, by chance or by Jin’s silent prearrangement, he does not know.

Jin’s smile is carefree, so Yuma focuses on that, instead of his blood shot eyes and the dark circles beneath them.

“Let’s trade, a side-effect trade,” Jin proposes on the Tamakoma rooftop. “You first, Yuma”

“My best future, what is it like?” Yuma can’t taste the crackers he accepted from Jin. He can’t see the future either. He is more grateful for the latter than the former.

“There are many,” Jin pauses, looking straight at Yuma. “But Four-eyes is always with you.”

Jin dawdles, popping a cracker in his mouth and crunching loudly. 

“You travel the neighbourhood,”

Yuma licks the crumbs and flavouring dust off his fingers.  It tastes like sand. His trion body is degrading slowly. First his sight, he cannot help but see ugly lies. Then his sleep, he cannot rest. Now his taste. Soon, he fears — his heart.

 “-in most of them though, both of you just stay right here, sometimes with kids, sometimes with dogs, sometimes with both.”

Yuma blinks, suddenly flooded with bright fantasies.

“They followed the kids home,” Jin finishes.

“I see,” Yuma exhales, heart in his throat, “Your turn.”

Jin dares to take a step closer,

“I have done everything I possibly can.”

And Yuma doesn’t blink even as the wind stings his eyes. His pupils remain white.

“It isn’t a lie, Jin-san. Thank you, for everything.”

“No, thank  **you.** ”

 

Jin smiles.

It is rare that he gets to ask a dying one if he could be absolved of guilt. Most of them died so suddenly. He is bashful, Yuma realizes, at receiving such rare vindication.

 

He’s grateful, that Jin had tried so hard. That Yuma could say goodbye with the truth, that there was nothing more Jin could do for him. What fear, he was alone now. What joy, he was never truly alone until this moment.

 

Jin stares at Yuma as he walks away. The future shifts, shuffles, and slips away, out of his meddling hands. Jin only looks towards the ones where Yuma is scolding his two muddy children, where he is smiling on his wedding day, smart in a white suit. Jin sees Yuma, tall, strong and alive, crunching on a bonchi cracker.

Jin compartmentalizes, Jin moves on.

 

The last week is spent as every other. Every morning, Yuma walks Osamu to his university campus as he always does and waves at him from the gates. He’d turn as if to walk away, but stay and watch through the tall gates at Osamu’s retreating figure, until he disappears in the distance.

Only then does Yuma make his slow way back, ignoring people his age wondering why a child was alone on campus grounds.

 

×

Chika meets him after sniper practice.

He knows she knows from the way she looks at him.

“Osamu told you,” he says plainly,

“I overheard him and Jin the other day,” She says plainly as well. It is increasingly difficult to keep the bleakness out their voices.

“How much have you heard?”

“Something about an operation,”

Yuma waits. Chika has no choice but to continue and speak it into truth.

“Jin-san asked Osamu to reconsider, but Osamu said that if it didn’t go well, he’d," Chika focuses on a spot behind Yuma’s left shoulder, going silent.

“… he’d request for me to be transferred to Kageura squad, and that he’d resign from Border.”

Her good heart is too considerate and sore to ask any questions, so Yuma knows she is too good to deny him this:

“Please take care of him,” he says, bleakly.

 

×

 

He’d expected restlessness the night before the operation, but he slips into fitful sleep in his warm blankets.

He dreams of Death, a child with white hair and blood red eyes, suited in glossy black armour he knows is his father’s trigger.

Behind Death, he sees a familiar bobbing figure, hovering in place.

“The only who can make that choice is you, Yuma,” it calls, but it echoes with static — Distant. Discordant.

So Yuma charges, hands empty of triggers and rings.

It’s gruesome, entirely so on his end. Death does not crumble easily, and flickers like a hologram, jumping behind him, before him, above him. Still, Yuma kicks and struggles, bites and scratches. He plunges when he gets the chance, gripping Death by the jaw, a step from snapping his neck, when Death kicks him in the gut, to the floor.

“It’s over,” Death states, slamming Yuma’s head against the floor. There’s childish curiousity on his face, genuine confusion at Yuma’s struggle.

“It’s over,” Death repeats. Yuma sees that he isn’t lying.

Death asks, his red eyes probing, hands tight around Yuma’s neck.

“Now that it is over, can you tell why you have chosen to live?”

Yuma throws his hands up and presses his thumbs into those damn unlying eyes and screams

 

**“FOR**

**THE**

**CHANCE**

**TO**

**FIND**

**OUT”**

 

And blinded, Death bursts, rending apart by the skull, splitting like a tree struck by lightning, trion spilling from him. Yuma falls to his knees, depleted.

At that moment, warm and large hands pull him up, pushing him to Replica.

“Go,” the stranger urges, and he sounds so much like his father that he turns instinctively.

It is a young man, tall and new, head full of downy black curls, red eyes alive and twinkling. He smiles when Yuma gapes at him, teeth flashing like the silver lining behind rainclouds.

“Go on,”

and Hope laughs happily as Yuma runs towards Replica.

 

×

He kisses Osamu in his mint green scrubs behind the nurse that leads them to the Operations ward. The morning is early, the halls are cold, and Osamu’s hands are clammy.

Despite the circumstances, they both put on their bravest faces like every other day, and Yuma tries for the umpteenth time in his life to radiate warmth from his walking corpse.

“Good luck,” Osamu says lamely, miserable outside The Room.

The nurse is looking at them, so Yuma settles for a coward’s farewell:  squeezing Osamu’s hand, and then letting go. This time, it is Osamu’s turn to stay, forlorn, as Yuma walks on behind the thick doors to the Operation theatre.

The room is similarly cold, doctors in identical scrubs busying themselves with clinking metal in the back of the room. The nurse guides him to the reclining seat in the middle of the room, where he sits, compliant as a cadaver.

Unbidden, a memory surfaces: his father snipping open a rag doll, pulling out yellowed stuffing and carefully filling the limp form up with grains instead, before roughly and deftly stitching it up.

“Good as new,” He remembers the low, sleepy voice, as the doll is passed back to him.

Kinuta holds out a steel dish in front of Yuma.

“You have to take the ring off. We can’t risk trion agglutination.”

Yuma complies, though it takes a few tries before the ring pops off, and clinks into the sterilized dish. It leaves a red indent on his hand, and he shuts his eyes.

 _Now_ he was never more alone.

That rag doll was stuffed and restuffed, its limbs repaired and its button eyes replaced, until it fell apart. It was loved and missed, certainly, but wearing away was inevitable.

As he slowly fades from the anesthesia and trion deficit, Yuma remembers the cold, small frame of Death shattering under him, and a deep voice, thick and warm like black coffee in cold mornings.

“Good as new, Yuma, be a bit more careful next time, won’t you?” 

×

 

When he wakes, the world is cotton, soft and indistinct around him. He’s unsure if it is the sunlight or warm fluorescent, if it is him mumbling or someone else quietly conversing in the hallway. He moves his thumb to feel for the familiar smoothness of metal on his index, only to feel a jerk of panic in his ribs when he finds it missing.

He sits up and immediately regrets it when a sharp pain shoots through his side, and promptly slams his head on the headboard as he falls back down. When he reaches up to clutch his throbbing head, he only feels the pressure of his ringless left hand. He strains to look to his right, finding a bandaged stump where his arm should be, and unfortunately, catches a reflection of himself in his peripheral vision, on the dark glass of the window.

It’s him, he thinks, very much alive, with half his limbs missing, wrapped up in bandages like clothes went out of fashion.

With an eyepatch.

“ _Huh”,_ Yuma concludes intelligibly, vaguely registering the frantic beeping of some machinery by his bedside, and smacks his head on the headboard as he passes out again.

 

He learns his lesson the next time he wakes, and remains lying down, groggy and thankfully in less pain. He feels a warm hand on his, which is very nice, so he simply lies there, letting himself be accompanied in the dark.

The hand is woefully removed when the door opens, and Yuma hears soft whispering from a gentle voice, replied by a softer one, higher in pitch. Most of the conversation is lost on him, but what he hears is:

“- -- -too hard----jin sa---feteria---get something in your syste— “

Then, in the low, gentle voice,  

“Don’t wor-y about me, Chi—mum dro’d by and—“

And that’s when he slowly opens his eye(s?) and gropes in his blurry reality for Osamu’s hand.

No amount of anesthesia or trion deficit was going to distort that familiar phrase. Yuma had certainly heard that tone of 'Don’t worry' enough times to know it was prudent to start worrying anyway.

 

 _“I’m a good boyfriend,”_ Yuma thinks smugly, and falls asleep as Osamu screams for a nurse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the MUSTN'TS, child,  
> Listen to the DON'TS  
> Listen to the SHOULDN'TS  
> The IMPOSSIBLES, the WONT'S  
> Listen to the NEVER HAVES  
> Then listen close to me-  
> Anything can happen, child,  
> ANYTHING can be
> 
> \- Shel Silverstein


	2. Marketgraves and Mikado Monster Curry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 葡萄美酒夜光杯，  
> 欲饮琵琶马上催。  
> 醉卧沙场君莫笑，  
> 古来征战几人回。
> 
> -《凉州词》， 王 翰
> 
> Fine wine glitters in this jade chalice  
> I wish to drink, but the pípá calls us to fight.  
> And if we lay drunk on the sand dunes, sir, I beg you not laugh,  
> Since the dawn of time, how many that left for war have returned?  
>   
> \- Liangzhou Verse, Wang Han

 “No deviation…in gait…pattern…” Kinuta mumbles as he jots down the results into his clipboard.

“That’s good, right?” Yuma asks as Osamu helps him into the wheelchair, pushing him a water bottle.

“We still have some tests to do, but tentatively, we’ll be able to get you fitted with prostheses without much issue. We’ll run some diagnostics on your trion gland and see if a trion-controlled prosthesis would be preferable… but the lab would be busy till the twenty-third…and there’s still the matter of the optometrist appointment…” Kinuta trails off, lost in thought.

“We _really_ appreciate this, Kinuta-san,” Osamu says, grateful, and as always, worried for the sleep-deprived Research Head, “Thank you for overseeing this personally.”

“I had a personal interest in it,” Kinuta replies, still flipping through his clipboard, “We’ve made great progress in trion prosthetics, but we’ve never replaced damaged organs with synthetic trion-thread ones on anything larger than a lab rat,” He passes the clipboard to Yuma, flipped open to a page with columns of data.

“Right now you’ve got a pancreas, left kidney, half a stomach and a quarter of your jejunum made entirely from trion, and we’re looking at transplanting your eyes and limbs as well, and if that’s successful, well, we could- we could do so much more,” Kinuta marvels, and pauses, staring vacantly into space.

“God, I love my job.”

“Wait, I’m only 168cm?”

“Why do I bother,” Kinuta huffs, snatching his clipboard back,

“Osamu, how tall are you?”

“I’m, uh, more or less that height too-”

“I didn’t know I was dating a boring  _liar- “_

“Yuma…”

“How tall, Osamu?”

“175cm, give or take”

“Give or take  _what--”_

 

Osamu winces.

 

“10 centimet- “

“ _Osamu,”_ Yuma says, stricken, “You god-forsaken bean pole.”

“Suck it up,” Kinuta says, straightening up to his full height of a hundred and sixty-one centimeters, “Just wear heels like the rest of us,” and leaves the room, shoes clicking sharply against the floor.

 

×

 

“Ah~, I’ve missed you, depth perception,” Yuma croons, red eyes twinkling. He lets his wheelchair roll off somewhere in their operation room with an offhand nudge.

“Sorry, it’s only for the afternoon patrol,”

Yuma sighs with an exaggerated slump against Osamu’s shoulder.

“Cheer up, we’re meeting Chika and getting Mikado Monster Curry after this,” Osamu laughs, carding his fingers through Yuma’s hair, snowy white again in his trion body, “we’ll get whatever toppings you want.”

“She’s not joining us for patrol?”

Osamu’s hand stills.

“No, she’s going to visit Rinji-san today. Yuzuru-kun is going with her — to see Hatohara-san.”

Rinji and Hatohara — The two they found in the neighbourhood a year ago, thankfully alive, but comatose in the Central Hospital, and under watch by Border; That left Chika and Yuzuru with not much to do but count their blessings.

The slight mention of the two was enough to send Osamu into his fretting. His eyes went faraway, worrying about something or other again. Yuma pulls him back on instinct, wrapping his arms around him and smiling wolfishly.

 “So I guess it’s juuust you and me today?” he drawls with a suggestive raise of his brows.

Osamu grabs Yuma’s cheek in a gloved hand and pinches as hard as he can.

“Behave, I don’t want a repeat of-“

“Sorry I’m late! I was up with all those reports, the end of year crunch is hell, and I- Oh, my, did I interrupt something?” Usami blusters into the room in a ramble, glasses askew and bunned-up hair greasy, flaked with crumbs and bits of paper.

“Not at all,” Osamu snaps to attention with what he hopes is a convincing smile, extracting himself from Yuma and shooting the recalcitrant albino a Look.

No such luck, Usami smiles with all the nasty cheer of an imp, suddenly alert despite her obvious sleep deprivation.

“Oh? Allow me to put on my  _skepticals,”_ she replies, straightening the red frames askew on her face.

“Honest!” Osamu protests.

“Well, those marks on your neck tell a different story, loverboy!” Usami points, gleefully screaming.

Osamu slaps a hand on his neck, mortified, half a beat before remembering that he was in a trion body.

 

Ergo, free of any incriminating  _evidence._

 

“Ha! Called your bluff!” Usami cheers, no trace of her previous fatigue present.

Osamu’s face flushes brilliantly. Yuma laughs and does not stop.  

“My, my, how scandalous,” Usami continues, having entirely too much fun at Osamu’s expense, “I see the incident last Tuesday wasn’t nearly enough to put you two lovebirds off!”

Osamu groans, suddenly wishing Bail Out functioned within Border HQ. The events of last Tuesday were a hot brand in memory, and he flinches at their mention.

Even if he were to conveniently forget, surely his Tamakoma seniors would be all too happy to remind him for the next decade.

“ **They said they’d be back around dinner,”** Osamu yells over the two cackling hyenas in the room. “And Yuma-, don’t act like it wasn’t  ** _your_**  idea— “

“Don’t act like you weren’t into it- “

“OK! OK! TMI, boys, TMI!” Usami declares, clapping her hands “Aaanyway, Border isn’t paying us to gossip,” and, unable to resist, adds “or make out in our home bases,”

Osamu plants his face firmly into his hands as Usami starts briefing their patrol route for the day.

 

 

 

(“It’s not like Jin hasn’t done worse,” Usami consoles as she waves them off, “At least you and Yuma had clothes on-“

“Oh, TMI-“

“Tachikawa is like, surprisingly hairy-“

“TMI!  **TMI!** ”)

×

Japan’s summer heat doesn’t reach them past the numb chill of their Trion bodies. The sun is high in the sky as they head to the Marketgrave. Border Management loathes the name and scolds the agents they hear using it along the corridors, but it was apt, and apt names stuck. The Grandfathers would know.

(Border Management hates that nickname as well. Tough luck.)  

The Marketgrave is an old business district in the East zone of the Forbidden Area. It used to be one of Mikado City’s prides, second only to the orchards, but it seemed the Neighbours didn’t quite care for the traditional crafts of Mikado city, and razed the shops down.

Nevertheless, the citizens of Mikado found small blessings, even if said citizens were the lazy stray cats that yawn and stretch and pay Border agents no mind. Being on the fringe of ground zero meant that structural damage was limited, and enough buildings remained standing, providing happy shade.

Depressing scenery all about, but nothing is that bad with company. Osamu updates Usami once he sees the traditional pebble-paved road, before proceeding with their patrol.

Radio silence sustains over their communicators long enough to assume their operator had dialed down the volume of their intercoms. She’d alert them when there was detected activity.

For now, much coveted privacy.

Between school and medical appointments, time alone with Yuma was rare and cherished. Their wonderful operator, as always, notices, and as always, does not comment as she accommodates them.

They turn into a dark lane.

Then and only then does Osamu dare to reach out and take Yuma’s hand in his own, lacing them tenderly. The tall shophouses stand guard against the civilian zone that begins three wide streets away.

 

According to **Border Manual of Standards - Operators and Support Personnel (6 th Edition)**

 

 _“…all operators supporting agents in duty are required to maintain live communication lines at a clear, loud volume…_ ”

_-pg 286, Essential Safety Measures in Duty_

 

Usami’s consideration is an open transgression; but if they went after her, they’d have to go round and dock the pay of nearly every other A and B rank operators. Osamu suspects The Grandfathers know this.

They are reaching the end of the shadowcast lane now. Yuma swings their hands gently between them, keeping an eye out for radds scuttling in the dark. The streets will merge soon, and the bustle of the city and her civilians would cry through the frail structures about them.

Like a pendulum, they keep an easy pace, their warm hands swinging

back

The rules were in place for their safety. Osamu never doubted that. They had a job to do and this was neither the time nor place for comfort.

forth

Yet to be patently honest, there’s never a time and place  _safer_. The island of ruin in the center of Mikado was all the sanctuary some agents and their partners were afforded.

back

The bamsters, god forbid, the  _marmods —_ with their thrice-reinforced trion armour. The feverish clattering of their spear legs, a galloping beetle the size of a horse with one boggling eye rushing at you.

 

Sometimes Osamu dreams of being stabbed over and over and over, but the worst nightmares are his mother’s cold, stiff body in a coffin.

Two hands out, one in his raygust and the other open with asteroid.

No hands to spare for Yuma.

forth

The civilians – your sister, your classmates, the old lady that sold croquettes down the road, with their sharp eyes and caustic, alkaline hearts. Their soapy words that froth at you in an empty room, bubbles that rose and rose but never quite popped

some love is just

                some love is just             just just just

                                                                                unnatural

both hands free here, both hands free there, but none to hold.

back—

“Sorry to interrupt, boys, the radar is clear. Just finish the round and circle back!” and Usami was gone again.

forthforthforthforth

The Operator's duty is to support their agents. So if they had to

keep a finger on the volume control, and

carefully match-make patrol schedules,

\- be an awkward plus one at a party,

-pick up a tearful call at 3.45am on a school night,

-all while keeping their teammates alive—

 

They took an Oath,

 

_"I do so solemnly swear,_

 

_-by the Agents of Border, and the Citizens of our home, making them our witnesses, that I will carry out, according to my ability and judgment, this oath and this indenture…_

_…To hold my team in this mission equal to family, impart them instruction and support….”_

 

Osamu looks at the languid cats stretching and rolling on their backs, comfortable in the wreckage. Yuma squeezes his hand gently, and smiles at him. He was faraway again, fretting. Osamu smiles back in reassurance, and they walk together, hand in hand in the light of the sun.

×

A prominent charred building comes into sight at a turn, flakes of its old cherry blossom paint still visible in the ruins. If memory serves, it was once an old confectionary shop Konami senpai frequented for their handmade dorayaki.

 The owners escaped the first invasion unscathed, but the new shop had since been moved far from her walk to Tamakoma, a fact the sweet-toothed senior often bemoaned. Osamu recognizes the logo from when someone makes the long trip to purchase them, once a blue moon.

 “We’ve reached Kanoya already?” Yuma asks, unlinking his left hand from Osamu’s right, walking ahead to peer into the one intact window of the building, caked in a layer of dust.

“You know, once Yoneya and Midorikawa found some snacks still in there, and Midorikawa dared Yonaya to eat them.”

“Is that why they got food poisoning for a week that one time?” Osamu replies, unfazed after years of such antics.

“Nope, that was from Kako’s ‘White Chocolate Squid Feet Fried Rice’,” Yuma pokes his head through the debris of the old shop.

“Squid Feet? Do squid even have- Yuma, what are you doing?” Osamu yells as Yuma sticks his left foot and upper torso into the darkness of the old shop, trying his level best to squeeze the rest of himself in.

“I’m gonna see if there are any more snacks! Finders’ Keepers!” he screams like a battle cry.  

 

At a loss for a suitable reply, Osamu decides to explore the empty shops around him.

 

All are dark and dusty, still as mysteriously enticing as they were before the invasion. The store beside Kanoya was a traditional craft shop, with beautiful Japanese dolls still in their shattered display cases. Shaken from their stand, all lying on their side, handmade custom kimonos crumpled, but their intricately painted faces unscathed, testament to their quality.

The next store was an old diner, wax imitation sashimi slices, glistening and fat, lined up on dark, lacquered plates, carefully garnished with a wasabi flower and plastic leaves. Still as inviting as they were before, were it not for the dust.

Quickly engrossed, the day disappears in that manner. Osamu wanders the lonely streets. An old model train, long as his arms and derailed from its plastic tracks, would catch his attention (though the model bridges had anachronistic support frames, much to his displeasure). On the opposite lane, an old camera shop beckons with faded photographs of Mikado City, and he marvels at the old landscape, foreign with the behemoth that was the Border base absent.

His phone buzzes when it is nearly time for dinner, and only then does he realize the sun is done with his tantrum, and has stomped away in the horizon. It’s nearly time for dinner.

With Chika.

Osamu hurries back down the street, hoping that Yuma was out the sweets shop by now. He certainly wasn’t going _in_ to look for him. He hurries, past the cameras, the train model —

 

A shimmer of white in a store catches the waning sunlight – and his eye. The store is dark like the rest, its name sign faded beyond legibility. A huge chunk of its sprawling display pane was shattered at a corner, and not seeing any harm in indulging in his curiousity for a little longer, Osamu creeps into the old shop.

 

 

 

 

 

 “Jackpot!” Yuma yells, extracting his left foot from a fallen beam, arms full of packaged candies. “Osamu! Look what I found! Some of these aren’t even  _that_  long past their expiry! Let’s feed them to Raiji- Osamu?”

 

The streets are empty, and Yuma wonders, incredulous, if Osamu had left without him. Just then, a familiar teal uniform appeared at the far end of the street, crawling carefully out of a shop.

 

“Osamu!” Yuma calls, “You went exploring too!”

 

“Mm,” Osamu replies, quiet and evasive, “C’mon, let’s go before we make Chika wait.”

 

A white trail of lace hangs out of Osamu’s uniform pocket, and when he notices Yuma staring, he simply tucks it in.

 

Unable to bend and peek through the broken glass due to his heaping spoils of war, Yuma settles for squinting past the dark window. From what little he could see, it was a bespoke tailor of sorts, with a number of mannequins, more fallen on the floor than standing, clad in western formals.  There was a work counter to the right, scissors and tape measures strewn across the countertop. Bales of cloth lined the walls like soldiers. Other than that, not much else.

 

Yuma took two cautious steps back, ready to leave, when a shimmer of white catches the sunlight, right at the farthest end of the shop.

 

A beautiful white gown, with a long satin train that extends into the darkness behind it, complete with a lace veil, simple yet elegant. Beside it, a matching white tuxedo, its broad-shouldered silhouette timeless and classic. It seems the satin border of its lapels was what flickered in the late afternoon sun.

 

When Yuma shifts a little, he sees himself reflected in the dark glass, aligned with the headless, tuxedo clad mannequin. If he squints, he almost sees himself in the neatly pressed suit, next to the bridal mannequin, waiting to be wedded.

 

What was Osamu doing in there?

 

Yuma runs down the street after his boyfriend, hands full of expired candy and head void of answers.

 

 

×

 “I don’t know, he seemed much better, but you know how he is. Talk to him when I’m on the trip please? You’re always better at cheering him up. Yes. Yes. I don’t know if they have _that_ , but I’ll try and find some, promise. Oh! I see them! I’ll call you later Izuho-chan, mmhm! See you!”

“Chika! Sorry we’re late!” Osamu greets. Yuma waves, in his wheelchair again, similarly contrite.

“It’s fine, dinner rush hasn’t started anyway. Let’s go in! I’ve been dreaming of Chicken Katsu Curry for _weeks._ **”**

“A whole plate? Chika, the servings here are twice the size of my head,” Osamu says, pulled into the shop. The cozy restaurant is small, but their servings are anything but.

“It’s not  _that_  big. Should I get extra cheese? I think the omelette with extra cheese.” Chika decides firmly,

“I’m getting heartburn listening to you, Chika” Osamu sighs, “Yuma, we’re sharing a plate?”

“Yeah, you eat like a bird anyway,”

Chika laughs.

“It’s not my fault you both manage to pack away a buffet despite being half my height.” Osamu protests, and that earns a kick from Chika under the table.

“Just pick your toppings, tweety,” Yuma laughs, handing Osamu the menu.

×

Dinner passes easily, with Chika ordering seconds, and Osamu giving up around the fifteen-minute mark. They jump from topic to topic, between Rinji and Hatohara’s condition (“I was just calling Izuho-chan about it; Not much change, but they’ve put on some weight, which is good news.”) to the upcoming Aftokrator diplomatic trip (“I wish I could go, but Kinuta says I’m getting fitted for prosthetics. Say hi to Hyuse for me.”).

The bill comes just as Osamu complains to Chika about Yuma attempting to feed Usami expired dorayaki from their patrol.

 

“She doesn’t mind, she’d have done it for science-“

 

“-those things were fresh back when I was  _your_  height; what do you expect to happen?”

“Low blow, Osamu- “

 “How else would it hit you?”

“ _Everyone_ knows sweets don’t expire, facts of life. I learnt it from Konami-senpai.”

“She still thinks Raijinmaru is a dog, by the way.”

“So does Hyuse, what’s your point?”

“Don’t feed people expired candy-”

“Guys, all this talk about sweets is making me want dessert,” Chika chimes in.

“I vote ice cream,” Yuma pipes up, not missing a beat

“There is no way you can still fit food in your bodies.”

“I’m a neighbour” Yuma says, winking. (Osamu thinks he is, anyway, it‘s hard to tell with the eyepatch.)

“Producing trion takes energy.”

Chika’s classic excuse. She’s already fishing out a loyalty card for the Lazy Sundaes joint down the lane.

“I give up,” Osamu sighs, wheeling a cheering Yuma after Chika.

A scoop of Rocky-road does sound pretty good.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kanoya is a canon traditional Japanese sweetshop featured in the Volume 16 extras, special thanks to chippokenabokura @ tumblr for the kind translations.
> 
>  
> 
> Mikado Monster Curry isn't canon, but based on Monster Curry, a Japanese curry chain in Singapore. The serving sizes are huge, and you can customize your poison by spiciness level (Level 1 being Super Weenie Hut Jr. and Level 5 being the Salty Spittoon), and you can add toppings like shredded cheese, onsen eggs, omelettes, sausages, mushrooms, MORE MEAT...etc etc......
> 
>  
> 
> The poem in the front note is a famous poem from the Tang dynasty. Read the full analysis [here](https://eastasiastudent.net/china/classical/wang-han-liangzhou-verse/), if you will.


	3. Alone together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's be alone together / We could stay young forever / We'll stay young, young, young, young, young.

“Toothbrush, check, Toothpaste, check, Underwear, check, Disposable briefs for Tachikawa-san—”

“Just tell him no when he asks,” Yuma replies, peering over a worn volume of “Borderless Love”.

“Assuming if he actually asks  _before_  taking my underwear, sometimes I wonder if he even packs for expedition trips.”

Yuma knows he doesn’t, and laughs from the bed as Osamu rushes through his final luggage check. A pity that he wasn’t going this time; a strict regime of rest, physiotherapy and university preparation benched him for the week.  A photo is tacked on Yuma’s messy corkboard, above his equally messy desk: Tamakoma 2 back from their first expedition trip. Tired, Happy. Slightly singed from a harrowing escape.

If Yuma were honest, he misses the chaos of the Neighbourhood.

It’s already looking to be a boring three days and two nights without Osamu and Chika. Yosuke would be on double patrol; Miwa Squad usually was, when an expedition trip was ongoing. Midorikawa was finally able to join his team on scouting trips, which meant he was halfway across Japan now, wreaking havoc in Kyoto. Konami-senpai was interning at a boring desk job she hated, and didn’t even seem keen on a fight or two. He’d stockpiled some dorayakis in Tamakoma HQ for her out of concern, hoping that Yotaro hadn’t grown tall enough to reach the top shelves of the kitchen.

He missed Osamu already, even though he was two steps away, rustling through his bags to confirm that yes, he did pack granola bars for Chika.

“Alright, seems like that’s done with-  _oof, ­_ Yuma?” Osamu finds himself trapped in a warm embrace by a pouting neighbour.

 

 ‘ _I want you to staaaaaay’_ Osamu hears in the way Yuma sighs into Osamu’s back.

 

 ‘ _I want to stay too’_ Osamu replies by soothing a hand along Yuma’s arm, wrapped about his waist.

“Let’s go to bed.” He cajoles, “I’m done packing anyway,”

“mmmmgrhgh,” comes the sullen answer.

“Come  _on_ ,” Osamu laughs, and peels himself from the constricting hug. Yuma pouts magnificently, looping a mechanical finger around Osamu’s index, petulant as Osamu checks the list again.

“- forgot my coat,” Osamu remarks, starting to the door. “I should ask mum where she stored it.”

“It’s summer in Afto right now.”

“Can’t be too safe. Go to bed, Yuma, and don’t fall asleep on my book- “

“Your trashy romance novel.”

“My paperback literature,” Osamu defends, heading down the stairs.

Yuma smiles fondly, and turns to switch the desk light off. Osamu’s checklist catches his eyes, crisp and neat on the table.

On it:

  * T-shirts [4x] (tick)
  * Pants [4x] (tick)
  * Underwear [8x] (tick)
  * Underwear [Tachikawa-san’s, 2 packs] (tick)
  * Granola and Rice Crisps for Chika (tick)
  * Toiletries (tick)
  * Coat



Grabbing a red pen, Yuma scrawls quickly in the empty space below, flipping the note over and the light switch off, dousing the room in darkness.

A moment later, Osamu walks in, drops the soft weight of the coat on his desk and climbs into bed.

Three days is nothing; they’ve lasted years without each other. Osamu pulls the covers over them and Yuma pulls him closer by the waist. They would wait for this, the soft linen, the barely-there ticking of the small clock, the strawberry shampoo they share. Three days is nothing.

×

The away ship is massive and demands you notice it, bellowing its engine and screeching as the massive door slams open like a steel shark yawning.

“Awright, load up,” Kinuta shouts over the monstrous din.

It’s the usual lineup, Tachikawa and Kazama squad standing smart in their uniforms, black and navy luggages beside them. Ninomiya squad stands a little further away, avoiding eye contact with the other teams, huddled together and talking quietly.

Osamu trots into the departure bay with his luggage, walking straight to Chika’s side, where Usami was excitedly chatting with Yoneya.

“Morning, Chika,” He whispers. Chika sways dangerously, quite obviously half-asleep. She perks up enough to smile sleepily at him and hand him a folder of her insurance statements, along with her Border Identification Card.

“Didn’t get much sleep?” Osamu guides her to slump against her luggage. He predictably gets a soft snore in reply.

“Me?” Usami turns to Osamu suddenly, waving away her cousin.

“I  _know_  you didn’t get sleep, Usami-san,” Osamu replies drily. She shoves him a splotchy manila folder, nearly missing his outstretched hand altogether. It’s sloppily and suspiciously labelled 'VERY IMPRTNT'. Her card is stuck on it as well, with no tape or glue, just a mysterious glittery tack and many shiny holographic stickers.

“You would be right!” Usami cheers, “Forty-eight hours and counting, baby!”

“Good luck,” Yoneya mouths from behind his energy drink-addled cousin.

Osamu hopes Kinuta won’t yell at him for the dubious state of their operator’s documents. Occupational hazard of being the team captain.

“I’m glad she removed the googley eyes this time,” Kinuta snarks, pulling out their forms and signing them, careful and deliberate, before slotting them into a box behind him. He scans each of their cards, registering them into the expedition ship’s system. 

He manages to wake Chika long enough to get her onto the ship and Usami thankfully falls asleep the moment she settled in. She’d complain about building up immunity to her energy drinks when she woke, but for now, peace in the team cabin.

Osamu tucks his luggage into the small cubbies overhead, and settles into the stiff leather of his seat, suddenly tired. Morning flights were rough on the soul.

He thinks of Yuma sleeping back home. When he wakes, Osamu would be in another dimension, and all he’d have would be a small to-do list tucked into his hand.

On it:

  * T-shirts [4x] (tick)
  * Pants [4x] (tick)
  * Underwear [8x] (tick)
  * Underwear [Tachikawa-san’s, 2 packs] (tick)
  * Granola and Rice Crisps for Chika (tick)
  * Toiletries (tick)
  * Coat (tick)



then in Yuma’s scrawl,

  * KISS YOUR BOYFRIEND GOODBYE



 

 

 

 

(tick)

×

“Kuga-kun!” Nasu exclaims, wheeling herself to the parallel bars, “Congratulations on your official discharge!”

“Nasu-san,” Yuma greets, not without visible strain, “It’s nice to see you, I got your fruit basket, thank you.”

It’s physiotherapy day, dreaded and anticipated like the big drop on a rollercoaster, except thrice a week.

“You’re welcome,” Nasu replies, pausing as Yuma lowers himself into his wheelchair. “Are you here alone?”

Yuma unlocks his wheelchair and maneuvers himself to Nasu’s side “Yep, the team’s next dimension over and I’m playing benchwarmer.”

“For now,” Nasu comforts, “I’m sure you’ll join them on the next round,” she places a comforting hand on Yuma’s, just to be sure.

“You’re getting the hang of your prosthetics, I’m sure Med Bay will give you the green light soon.”

“You think so?” Yuma runs a hand over his thigh, feeling the ridge where the black trion material met flesh, “Walking still gives me hell.”

“It’s normal, Kuga-kun, why, it’s been a decade and Kuma-chan still gets sore at the end of the day with hers, and some days my cousin, you know Tooru, well yes- he used to be right handed, but now he’s ambidextrous because it hurts to write on a bad day.”

Yuma purses his lips thoughtfully, lingering frustration still clear on his face.

 “Are you done for today?” Nasu asks gently,

Yuma looks around the near empty gym, tempted to give himself another hour or so. His joints knew better, though, pulsing with just enough pain to tell him to quit it.

“Yes, yes I am.”

“Will you accompany me to the juice bar? Kuma should be done with her physio soon,”

“Sure, I’m meeting Kasumi-san at the lobby soon - that’s Osamu’s mum, - since he’s on the away trip.”

“Oh yes, I heard that you’ve moved in with Mikumo-kun, how nice,” Nasu says, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice “-of his parents too, how good of them.”

“Yes,” Yuma says, as they wheel themselves into the large elevator and make their way down. He places a comforting hand on hers anyway.

Just to be sure.

×

Kumagai is waiting with a glass Vanillaberry Protein Supreme shake when they arrive. There’s an untouched Peachpear Swirl beside it. Upon seeing them, she waves enthusiastically, pressing a chaste kiss on Nasu’s sweaty cheek when they wheel over.

“You both look like shit,” Kumagai greets, and Nasu swats at her.

Kumagai only laughs and hands a grateful Nasu her usual drink.

“I didn’t know you used the community gym, Kuga,” Kumagai remarks, draining her Vanillaberry in one gulp, “I always see you at Border Med Bay.”

“Today’s special,” Yuma says, putting down the overcomplicated menu, “Osamu’s away so his mum’s meeting to pick me up later; here’s nearer for her.”

“Osamu? Oh, Mikumo, your boyfriend? I swear, it’s like, the curse of being an attacker, being this gay for our captains- _ow_ , babe -- anyway, isn’t this place nice? It’s not as fancy as Border but it’s big enough and the equipment’s pretty new — you done with that?” She points at the laminated plastic menu.

“Ah, yeah, I think I’ll get the, uh,” Yuma squints at the offensively neon list, “Mint, Green, Cocokiwi Machine.”

“Ew, don’t. That’s coconut type coco; not like, chocolate cocoa. It tastes like how Commander Kido looks- _ouch_!  _Babe,_ I was  ** _quoting_** _**you** , **OW**! _ C’mon, Kuga, I’ll get  _us_  the Blueberry Banana Blitz, my treat.”

Nasu watches her girlfriend go with a sigh, opening her mouth as if to apologize, then just sighing again.

 

 

 “Try it!” Kumagai insists, intense like a furnace when their order arrives. Yuma suspects it’d explode in his mouth right out the straw— the tall dessert glass is filled to the brim with something electric blue and topped with whipped cream, buttery and thick.

He takes a cautious sip, and reels. It stings almost spicy from how cold it is. The whipped cream turns out to be finely pureed banana, smooth and sweet.

It was a mystifying concoction, peculiar and potent.

“I want seconds,” Yuma says the moment he drains it.

“Oh no,” Nasu moans.

“Team Blue!” Kumagai screeches, nearly upsetting her own drink

“Team Blue!” The matronly figure behind the juice booth echoes.

“Oh no,” Yuma says, smiling.

×

 “This leg was awful when I first got it,” Kumagai says, _lentissimo_ after her third Blitz, “Two hours in and I’m walking like I’ve got the wedgie of the century.”

“I’ll toast to that,” Yuma replies, tongue blue and numb, clinking his second glass solemnly against Kumagai’s.

“Once I-, we,” Nasu gestures between herself and Kumagai, “planned a date. Our first one. Ever. And I was so prepared — I picked my outfit and researched on all the places we could go and I checked the weather report so many times, I was ready to go on a date in a hurricane. But then I wake up the next morning with like,  _negative_  spoons, I was melting into my bed, so I- “

 

She swallows, turning a little red at the memory, but her eyes are fiery.

“-like any logical girl, used my trigger, and went to see her anyway. We had so much fun; we went to the aquarium and café hopping and even caught two late night movies. We just didn’t want to go home — and at midnight exactly, we got summoned by the Grandfathers: to explain why I was using my trion body on non-official circumstances.”

Kumagai rolls her eyes.

“God, the old fu-”

Nasu clicks her tongue,

“-farts, the old farts had the biggest meltdown over it, as if Tachikawa-san doesn’t use his trion body all day when he gets a hangover. I told them where they could shove their rulebook.”

“Tooru put in a good word for us,” Nasu laughs, “But really, what good’s a trion body a girl can’t go on a date in the city she protects?”

Yuma laughs.

“I’ll toast to that too,”

 

 

All their tongues are blue by sunset. Nasu takes selfies and promises all the B-ranks would see it by tomorrow.

Sunlight slips by like satin, spilling gold at a sharp angle through dusty panels of the old medical center. They relocate to the lobby, and Yuma protests, but they insist on waiting with him for Kasumi.

Yuma and Nasu push their wheelchairs up against each other and Kumagai perches on the armrests between them. In the empty lobby, they talk about the future.

Nasu starts.

“Kindergarten teacher,” and Kumagai follows up with a

“Jesus, I don’t know, maybe a PE teacher, but not for kids, I think I’d kill one of them on accident.”

The three laugh boisterously and Yuma clumsily adds that he might ask Shinoda if there were openings in Border. It’s entirely foreign, living and being expected to live, being asked about plans for a future he didn’t think he’d get to experience. The girls nod in agreement.

“Border always needs more help, Kuga-kun.” Nasu encourages.

“The benefits are sweet too, like medical insurance and stuff, makes things like this,” Kumagai wiggles her left below-knee prosthetic, “that much easier. Not like we’ll be young forever.”

Yuma almost says something despondent; about how being young forever actually sucked — he would know. Kasumi arrives then, somehow making the casual combination of shorts, flipflops and a messy bun look elegant. She introduces herself, making both girls blush when she recalls hearing about a 'talented and strong all-girls team' from her son.

“We’ll get going, it’s getting dark,” Nasu smiles, and Kumagai stands and takes her place, naturally, behind her leader, hands on the grip of the wheelchair.

“So nice meeting you girls. Please stop by for dinner soon.” Kasumi replies, and once the girls leave, safely out of earshot, she whispers conspiratorially, “What a cute couple they’d make.”

Yuma laughs.

“They’re way ahead of you, Kasumi-san.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mikado Community Clinic: Enduring service for enduring souls


	4. God blesses the hot messes (who try their best)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ROMEO (to a dying MERCUTIO): Courage, man. The hurt cannot be much.  
> \- Romeo and Juliet (Act 3, Scene 1)

 

Physiotherapy is tough and coming home to an empty room is worse. Yuma wants nothing more than to fall on the bed and wallow, but resigns himself to the bathroom. The old Blues sneak up on you like that; one day you miss a shower, and the next thing you know you’re filthy on unchanged bedsheets wearing week-old clothes, sobbing and surrounded by empty pistachio shells.

A light of hope — Saint Kinuta and his R&D team have blessed him with waterproof Trion prostheses, and he makes quick work of taking a shower. On his way out he stops at the mirror and pulls at his dark hair, remembering the way Osamu ran his fingers through it.

(“ _It’s growing longer,” he’d said, and didn’t offer to cut it for him, so, so happy that they could grow together.)_

 Twisting the curls around his finger, Yuma tries to imagine his hair white and short again.

He can’t, and marvels at that until he sneezes from the cold.

 

Now, the manual suggests ‘gently patting and drying your prostheses after each shower with a soft microfiber cloth’, but Yuma smells creamy chicken stew from downstairs, so in the name of efficiency he grabs the hairdryer and starts blasting it into the hollow of his trion kneecap.

Kasumi finds him like that, shirtless on the edge of the bed, balancing his prosthetic shin on his good leg and rotating it with his non-trion arm like a shish kebab. A hairdryer is shrieking while clamped in his mouth.

“Hi Gas’umi-shan,” Yuma greets, hairdryer still in his mouth. How he manages to switch off the hairdryer with no hands astonishes her, but she decides she simply doesn’t want to know.

“Dinner’s ready.”

“E’e smels great!”

“Thank you. Why didn’t you dry your arm first, Yuma?”

Yuma blinks at Kasumi, then turns to look at his prosthetic arm beside him, then back to Kasumi.

“B’cuhse I c’n eat wih one han’ but I nee’ bof legsh to get downstaish?”

×

He’s placing the last clean plate on the drying rack with a gentle clink when Kasumi walks in and asks him to get two glasses from the cabinet. Behind him, she pulls the refrigerator door open and draws out a tall bottle, dark green and filled to the neck with an equally dark liquid.

When he joins her in the living room, the bottle is already uncorked, and he weakly protests as Kasumi pours out his share.

“I’ve never drank this stuff; I’d have no idea how to appreciate it.”

“I got this from the bargain bin,” Kasumi says as she points the remote to the television, switching from a B-rate mafia drama to a B-rate period drama, “you appreciate it by promising me you won’t puke in the kitchen sink after two glasses.”

“Did Osamu-”

“I promised I wouldn’t tell,”

Yuma laughs and takes a curious sip. It’s cold and pleasantly sweet and tangy, tapering into a mellow bitterness before sleeping in his belly, a gentle warmth. The drama drones on.

Yuma wonders if Kasumi spends her days like this when her boys were away: Osamu and himself in Border and her husband overseas with his bridges.

 _Lonely_ , he thinks. From a sidelong glance, her face betrays nothing, her shoulders slack and relaxed. She absently swirls her drink and sips from it. In the harsh, cool light of the television, she does look her age, faint crows’ feet and laugh lines emphasized.

Staying home feels right, suddenly.

 

 _This is nice_ , he thinks, and he takes another sip.

And another.

 

And another.

 

×

“I have a bad feeling suddenly,” Osamu pauses as he’s collecting uno cards back into a neat deck.

“Oh? Do tell,” Tachikawa replies, one hand sneaking into Osamu’s half-zipped luggage even though the latter is looking right at him.

“Just a hunch,” Osamu frowns, as Tachikawa continues ransacking his luggage. Something clinks dangerously inside, those better not be his spare glasses.

“Instincts mess with you like that,” Tachikawa stalls. He pulls his arm out, and Osamu yelps when he sees that it’s one of _his_ briefs.

“Oh wow, Hush Puppy? In this economy? Hey-“

 “I bet Yuiga has nicer underwear, why don’t you ever rob him?” Osamu protests, snatching his underwear back and shoving a pack of disposable briefs into Tachikawa’s hands.

“He’s a silk boxers kind of guy, and I don’t live like that,” Tachikawa waves his 12-pack of 100% biodegradable cotton briefs in a flourish. “You try using Grasshopper without any support, I know we’re in trion bodies, but jeez, it gives a new meaning to pinballing-”

The mental image has Osamu ready to assume fetal position and cry.

“Oh, uno?” Tachikawa digresses, thankfully.

“Just killing time,”

“Same. Game night in twenty?  We use the common room.”

“ **GAME NIGHT?”**  Usami jerks awake with the voice of God.

“Game…night?” Osamu asks. Everything about this event seems to elicit Osamu’s flight or fight response.

“Game night.” Tachikawa confirms, backing out the room quickly. Osamu sees his shampoo bottle and toothpaste badly concealed behind his back. 

 

×

“And right after my operation he p-pulls out this huge file of papers, this whole stack of, of, university applications and driving tests and, and voting registrations and he s-said he’s been collecting them all this time, waiting for me… and, and I just- “

 

Yuma smashes his red face into palms and sobs loudly.

 

Kasumi rubs a soothing hand up and down his back, the melodrama on the television long muted in favour of listening to Yuma’s drunken ramble.

 

“I’m gonna marry him,” Yuma declares, suddenly straightening from his crying position,

 “How nice,” Kasumi replies calmly, but slides the wine glass across the coffee table, away from the increasingly emotional Yuma, “now I’ll have two sons.”

 “I’ll bring him to his favourite bridge- “

 “Destroyed in the first invasion,”

 “-second favourite bridge! And I’ll get him the best ring and I’ll, I’ll- “

 

As Yuma continues, Kasumi sneaks her cell phone out from behind a couch cushion, swiping for the camera.

 

 “Would he wear a dress? Do I wear the dress? I don’t have the legs for it. Do we both wear dresses?”

 

 _What a time for this phone to lag_ , she thinks, just as Yuma slumps backwards, sliding from the couch and onto the floor. He’s silent, intently looking at his hands.

 

“Would he even say yes?”

 

He turns to Kasumi in what is supposed to be a teary puppy-dog stare, but his blotchy red face and puffy eyes have him looking like someone squeezed lemons into his eyes. She chokes down a laugh – just because he looks terribly pathetic, and because she doesn't want to spill her wine.

 

“Don’t worry so much, your hair’s going to turn all white again.”

 

Yuma sniffs.

 

“How long till Osamu gets home?”

 “It’s only been a day, Yuma.”

 

 

×

 

 

“This is completely pointless,” Ninomiya states, hair impeccably neat and glare contemptuous. Never has Osamu seen someone so grumpy in pyjamas.

 

Never has he seen tuxedo-print pyjamas either.

 

“That’s the point!” Inukai pushes his team leader into the small room, with a sleepy Tsuji trailing behind.

 

“Look who dragged themselves in,” Tachikawa greets from the far end of the tiny squad room, “Girls, break up the braid train.”

 

“Choo choo,” Kunichika placidly replies, securing Tachikawa’s french braid with a bright yellow elastic. Behind her, the rest of the operators similarly adjust their handiwork; braids of varying sizes and quality.

 

“Alright everyone!” Tachikawa announces, “let’s get game night started!”

 

With that, Border’s finest soldiers and diplomats of Meeden pad to the center of the room in fluffy bedroom slippers and sit in a solemn circle. It was time for a test of gumption and treachery, a test that would toe the line between courage and blinding stupidity. A social Russian Roulette; one wrong move — utter decimation.

“Truth or Dare!” Usami claps gleefully, “Who wants to go first?”

 

×

 

“Sir, the beds for our guests have been prepared.”

 

“Thank you,” Hyuse nods, frowning down at his tablet. “I’ve resolved the conflict in timetable for the Muohgui Hall; tell the banquet staff to proceed with a table setting for twenty. Make arrangements for two vegetarian meals.”

 

“Sir,” the servant nods, smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt. Her eyes don’t leave his horns.

 

“Have your rest afterwards.” Hyuse replies, voice clipped.

 

Only two days before the diplomats from Meeden arrive, and preparation progress has been glacial. A notification pings from his tablet taskbar: a meeting discussing the defense roster, another briefing specifically for jyiozhe – hornbearers – and their routine responsibilities in overseeing their respective squads. A complete waste of time.

 

In the distance, he hears glass shatter, followed by a dismayed exclamation. It’s probably nothing, he needn’t intervene; but the small error starts a telltale pulsing in his temples.

This diplomatic meeting would be the death of him, Hyuse thinks, looking up from the green glow of his tablet.  The sky is purple outside the castle, streetlamps lit up, bright and gold. Tonight again, their god has ensured Aftokratians everywhere found their way home easily. Tonight again, Lord Ellin has managed to fend off war, making sure all had a home to begin with. Every child, lucky or orphaned, was warm and fed.

Both their god and his Lord Ellin die a little more every day for their people; the former simply has no say in the matter. A servant rushes past him, pieces of a broken cup shaking in a dustpan.

He breathes slowly and looks down at his tablet again. Two clocks tick side by side on his home screen. Below Aftokrator’s bright green clock is varied information of his homeland: The region’s warm weather would persist for the week, sweet potatoes were back in season again, twelve best recipes for potato pies and tarts are linked below.

Where it is still early evening for him, Meeden’s blue clock tells him Mikado was likely deep asleep in the ebbing chill of late spring. A thunderstorm is predicted for Wednesday.

He twitches in annoyance by pure instinct, hearing Konami’s loud complaining of her soggy shoes, and how the old bridge outside Tamakoma kept collecting huge, unavoidable puddles.

More fondly, he thinks of Yotaro taking Konami’s whining as an invitation to go splashing in puddles with Raijinmaru. The newsfeed below refreshes, with articles on how to beat the heat in oncoming summer, _Hiyashi Chuka_ recipes, where to fish for _Ayu._

Is Yotaro fishing by the calm Tamakoma river? Will he catch a cold from the rain and insist that the only cure for him was a stack of warm _dorayakis_?

Against his better judgement, he selects his photo gallery, opening folders like a Matryoshka until finally, he brushes past pictures that Yuma sends of red leaves and the hot cocoa he likes from the park - stopping at a picture of Yotaro, completely exhausted, sleeping on Raijinmaru in his school uniform. His bag lays open, crumpled worksheets of arithmetic and kanji drills spilling around him. The next picture is Yotaro coming in second in his school’s sports day, smiling bright despite the gap where his front teeth should be. Hyuse snorts at the memory of a loopy Yotaro after his extraction.

That was almost a month ago.

Hyuse rolls the tension from his shoulders. It _is_ late, but

he could head down to the kitchen before bed; the recipe didn’t take long. Sweet potato pies could keep well for a week, refrigerated. If Yotaro does fall sick, something sweet would make him happy.

 

×

 

Osamu concludes that unless they could reach Aftokrator in an hour, trion technology on Earth had a long, _long_ way to go.

 

“Ok, glasses, your question for truth is….”

 

“Get on with it,” Kazama snaps, with a lipsticked scowl, “The sooner this ends the sooner I can wipe this off.”

“Ooh, you’ve got some on your-”Izumi points at his own teeth.

“Get on,” Kazama repeats, with more venom and a beige spot on his incisor, “with it.”

“You didn’t want to share what the most embarrassing thing you did while drunk was, so don’t get pissy now-”

“For what it’s worth, Kazama-san, I think Sweet Treat Floral Coral suits you very well,” Kaho smiles, “It brings out your eyes.”

 

Unwilling to snap at his operator, Kazama sighs, lips drying out from the product.

 

“Anyway, Glasses, here’s an easy one, since you’re the only one standing between us and Tachikawa-san going commando again- “

“Amen.”

“Did you ever have a crush on your sniper?”

“Nope,” Osamu quickly answers, avoiding Chika’s gaze, “Next person.”

“Really?” Utagawa snorts in disbelief, “You guys were childhood friends right? And you were so hung up on protecting her and getting her on the expedition…”

“I heard you broke into the Forbidden zone with pliers just for her,” Kikuchihara adds.

Kazama squad really did all they could to divert from their captain’s humiliation.

“It wasn’t- I didn’t-” Osamu sputters, visibly uncomfortable.

“I heard you and Kitora-san have private practice every week,” Yuiga insinuates, still bitter that his days of lording over Osamu were over, “any comments on that?”

“Cut it out, he beat you fifty times fair and square” Izumi slaps Yuiga over the back of his head.

 

“He didn’t have a crush on me,” Chika offers shyly, before the conversation devolved any further. Osamu thinks he sees a halo manifest around her head.

 

“See?” Osamu smiles, grateful.

 

“He had a crush on my brother.”

“CHIKA.” Osamu screams, now much less grateful.

 

The circle explodes with scandalous oohs and raucous laughter.

 

“The guy we found in the neighbourhood?”

“He was Osamu’s tutor,” Chika continues, a serene smile still on her face. Her halo was fast crumbling; Osamu sees horns sprouting from her head.

“Chika it’s ‘Truth or Dare’ not ‘Backstab and Betray’” Osamu hisses. Why couldn’t his squad be more like Kazama’s? Even Usami was laughing her head off.

“It was so obvious,” Chika says, deliberately raising her voice over the cheering, “You asked him to tutor you with _tennis_.”

 

“Mikumo. Really?” Kazama says, smiling through his Sweet Treat Floral Coral stained teeth.

 

“I have- I **had** poor hand-eye coordination,” Osamu defends, in what he hopes is a calm voice, mentally throttling his past self for his abject flirting skills.

“That I believe!” Inukai barks, elbowing Tsuji in his arm.

 

Across the circle, Ninomiya had gone silent and eerily calm. Osamu was almost completely sure the issue of Rinji, and by extended logic, Hatohara, was steering into dangerous waters.

Something seems to click in his steady eyes, and Osamu finds himself looking at a very sinister man in tuxedo print pyjamas.

 

“Does Kuga know?” Ninomiya asks, feigning innocent curiousity even as his eyes are gleaming with intent. The circle goes silent in an instant.

 

“I-, he-” Osamu tries, as twenty years of Japanese vocabulary summarily drains out of his head.

 

Yuma did not, in fact, know of Osamu’s puppy crush on Rinji, and Osamu was now dedicated to making sure it stayed that way. There wasn’t an official rulebook on romance, but he was pretty sure ‘letting your boyfriend find out that you dedicated nearly half a decade looking for a childhood crush’ was a relationship faux pas.

 

“We’ll find out when it’s his turn again,” Chika replies. Ninomiya’s intimidation is ineffectual on her; Osamu knows there’s been friction between the two, but Chika’s obvious disaffection is rare and therefore something to behold. “One question per turn”

Her halo makes its return, her horns retracting (for now).

 

Osamu lunges for the bottle in the middle of the circle and spins it.

 

“Not my brother, Osamu. Not him.” Chika whispers as Osamu leans back, and he wonders for the umpteenth time if the expedition ship could go any faster.

 

×

 

“Please don’t tell Osamu,” Yuma says, voice echoing from the metal sink he was currently bent over.

 

“Promise,” Kasumi says, patting his back soothingly.

 

“That’s a lie, Kasumi-san,” Yuma says miserably.

 

“At least you made it to four glasses,” Kasumi says evenly, sipping her wine as Yuma retches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hail Mary, full of grace  
> watch me try with your straightest face,  
> Blessed art thou amongst women,  
> please don't let them find the alcohol I've hidden,  
> Holy Mary, Mother of God,  
> pray for us idiots,  
> now and at the hour of our death.  
> which we hope is not so soon  
> Amen.


	5. For Auld Lang Syne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PITY AND BEWARE —
> 
> OLD MEN IN PROFESSIONS
> 
> WHERE MOST DIE YOUNG

 

Just to make conversation in the quiet morning, Sawamura says,

 

“It’s surprisingly peaceful today.”

 

 “I’d be glad if it stays that way a little longer,” Shinoda says, bouncing his motorcycle keys in one hand. Two helmets are secured by their straps in the crook of his arm.

 

“Kids have too much energy, and way too much time.”

 

“Keep being grumpy, I want to see what other names the kids find for you,”

 

“The Grandfathers,” Shinoda shudders, face contorting into a horrified expression. “I don’t sound old,” he protests, “I’m just saying, did basic respect go — why are you laugh- did Commander Kido say that too?” 

 

Sawamura hides her laugh with a chaste kiss on his jaw. There’s still stubble; he skipped on his morning shave to make it in time to give her a ride to work again.

 

“I’ll get coffee, go hit the showers,” she whispers, stroking a thumb over his chin.

 

He smiles and waves her down the corner, turning into the locker room. The helmets are stuffed away in the locker and he grabs his razor, going about his routine.

 

Routine, he thinks.

Years ago, that word gave him rashes, and he swore to keep living from day to day, finding joy in the smooth shine of engine chrome, in the sweep of his sword. But time hasn’t been that kind, no matter what his girlfriend says. Faint wrinkles, they used to be claw scratches on his smooth face, soon they’ll be battle trenches. There’s a sprinkling more salt in his salt and pepper hair every time he catches his reflection. Some of his stubble is turning white, even.

 

He’s got a few more years to claim that it’s just stress, but even so, a tickling anxiousness creeps up. He’s getting too tired for adventure. Something in him longs for a known future, boring and safe.

 

The thought scares him. He nearly nicks himself with the razor.

 

 

 

There’s warm coffee waiting at his seat when he gets to the meeting room, steaming in the cold as he settles in to read the meeting outlines (just because Karasawa couldn’t be trusted to be fully coherent after another night of drinking with sponsors). Through the thick walls he still hears agents and operatives, children, really, screaming from where the training booths were.

 

 _Oh, youth_ , he thinks,

 

and that’s all the warning he gets before his brain pulls him down memory lane.

 

Kei was a skinny little boy with the eyes of a troublemaker; Shinoda was still working part-time as a Kendo instructor after college.

The boy couldn’t hold his stance for more than a minute when he first started — how much has changed. The long nights spent trying to tutor the boy, panicking because he’d forgotten how fractions worked — how much has remained just the same.

 

 

 

Nostalgia, the terrible driver, veers sharply into the Museum of Antique Memories.

 

 

 

Shinoda’s father is teaching him how to hold a bamboo sword — his father must have been about his age when he had him, and how old was Yugo when he left again…? If Yuma arrived when he was fifteen, then…

 

 _Don’t think about it_ , Shinoda scolds himself, like he did with Kei when the boy got distracted.

 

 

 

 

But he does, and the thought sticks with him through the day.

 

×

 

 

“Shinoda used to bring me to parades like this all the time after Kendo practice. We’d get cotton candy before dinner.”

 

Tachikawa means to whisper, but their ceremonial robes are too bulky to bend in.  He forgot to tighten his shoelaces earlier, and there was no hope of fixing them now — He lost his left sneaker ten minutes ago in the parade.

 

Izumi hums half-heartedly, trying to eat a grape drooping from his ludicrously fruity ceremonial hat.

 

“He’s been weird lately. It’s been weird lately.” Tachikawa thinks out loud.

 

It’s not quite emotion in his voice, but it’s warm and sad like a newly occupied body bag, solemn like he never was.

 

“-and there goes my other shoe.”

 

 _You’ve been weird too;_ Izumi wants to say, gnawing on a stem in hope that he could tug the rest of the grapes down.

 

Kunichika agrees. Tachikawa doesn’t jump at expeditions or patrol anymore. He’s rarely near the training rooms, rarely even in Border.

 

No one knows where he goes; Rumours see him in Burger Queen, holed up for in the corner seats with paperwork. They tell sightings of him like urban legends – he’s in the library, the boring sections too, he’s always quiet, we don’t see him in the rank rooms, was he back from the Neighbourhood already? We haven’t seen him, we don’t know –-

Izumi would sooner renew faith in the tooth fairy and her shady transactions before he believed conspiracy theories of his captain acting that strange. But when it’s five weeks in a row that Tachikawa’s silent in their operation room, watching rank war recordings without audio commentaries—

Last night was the first in a long while that Tachikawa laughed and bothered to feign his usual boisterousness. He’s a good enough actor. It fools the rest.

 

 

Where did the party go?

 

Disloyal, for him to lose faith in his captain this fast, but Izumi can’t help it — he’s had a signed and dated Last Will and Testament in his study drawer since he was fifteen. The proximity to death tempered him into the man he was today; his proximity to his captain even more so.

It comes with the job, Tachikawa said once, to a bandaged Izumi being carted from the expedition ship to the Med Bay.

Faith doesn’t keep men alive, nor does respect. Tomorrow’s another dice roll, and you’ll find yourself heroless soon. Best to be prepared, even if it’s just emotionally.

Izumi was younger then, he’d cried at the truth. Tachikawa had to backpedal, and fast, before Izumi needed an IV for dehydration as well as a blood transfusion.

When you died the heroes you kept became your dog-tag. That’s how they’ll identify you when you’re dead; they’ll know you kept the flame alive as long as you could, for the dead and alive. They’ll you were alive and kicking, trying your damnest, and you kept others trying. Wasn’t that enough? Come on, Izumi, the nurses are gonna have my ass if you don’t stop-

 

So Izumi spent his days ready, hands burning with asteroids, heart burning like a star. Now he's watching the sun die out and he knows he doesn't know how he'll go on. Border hasn’t known peace since they formed a team. Border wouldn’t be the same if.

 

 

Was Tachikawa leaving?

 

 

 

Izumi can’t muster comfort, not even for himself. He settles for pathetic conversation.

 

“Get him a souvenir?”

 

“Any ideas?”

 

“You’d know him best,”

 

“I thought I did too,” Tachikawa replies, vacillating like a civilian already.

 

 

 

“What’s with you?” Izumi blurts.

 

“What’s with me?” Tachikawa asks, all the understanding of a lamb.

 

“Why’re you acting like someone died?” Izumi pleads, seeing no other recourse but unvarnished concern. Kunichika’s peering at them from her spot in the far back.

 

“I am?”

 

Izumi blinks once in perplexion.

 

Then twice in recognition.

 

 

 

 

 

“Jin-san told you something,”

 

What other reason was there? None else could unnerve his captain. Why didn’t he notice earlier— Tachikawa laughs and Izumi feels his heart plop down from where it was lodged in his throat.

 

 

 

“Jesus fucking Christ –“

 

“Was it that obvious?”

 

“I thought age was making you soft, goddamn!”

 

“I’m twenty-five, dipshit. I was just thinking--”

 

“Don’t do that again! Do you know how- look at Kunichika! Our asses were clenched the whole month-”

 

“You two were actually worried about me?”

 

“Yes! Fuck! You went funny all the sudden- stop laughing!”

 

“You were both worried? Is that why Kunichika kept letting me win in Tekken? Wait, so when you bought croquettes—”

 

“Go to hell.” Izumi says, but his wide grin belies his relief.

 

“Unreal,” Tachikawa huffs, “This whole team only has one brain between them,”

 

“That applies to you too,” Izumi grumbles, returning to picking fruit off his hat.

 

“Sure,” Tachikawa says, magnanimous, “I didn’t think y’all’d’ve notice.”

 

“You could give us more credit,” Izumi sighs, “Captain.”

 

Izumi is hiding his face under the brim of his ridiculous hat; Tachikawa can’t bend to look him in the eye.

 

“I guess I should have.” Tachikawa admits, fond.

 

“Will Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber,” a wobbling tower of fruit hisses from behind, “not have a heart-to-heart _in the middle of a parade_ , and use their stupidly long legs to walk. The sooner we get this over with the sooner I can take this off.”

 

Tachikawa and Izumi turn to face the fruit tower balanced on a simmering Kazama, and take one look at each other.

 

“Whaaaat?” Tachikawa asks in theatrical confusion, “I can’t heeear you over the crooooowd.” To Kazama’s chagrin, Tachikawa seems to slow down even more.

 

Izumi grins.

 

“Wow, my feet are really tired all the sudden-“

 

“Move,” Ninomiya growls from the back, looking like an incredibly hostile banana.

 

 

 

In a proud display of A-rank (1st place) teamwork, the procession seems to go even slower.

 

 

×

 

“Morning,” Yuma greets, rolling up to Rindo’s desk. Someone behind the wall of documents feeds the wastebasket another paper ball.

 

“No rest for the wicked?” Yuma asks again, when the Branch Director only grunts in reply behind his paper igloo. Crunch week in Tamakoma was something else, especially when Usami had Operator duty the next dimension over.

 

“I smell a hangover,” Rindo says in reply, removing his reading glasses and replacing them with his regular prescription ones.

 “Guess you’ve been having more fun than this old man,”

“I wish,” Yuma replies, dour. “I don’t know how I’m even hungover, I thought I puked it all out last night.”

“You’re making me envious,” Rindo sighs, “I’d rather have alcohol poisoning than look at another spreadsheet.”

Yuma sympathizes, but still turns a little green at the mention of-  *urp*  -alcohol.

 

Rindo waves Yuma nearer, twisting his laptop for a better look.

“Right then, let’s get down to it, here are your grades in the database,”

Rindo clicks another tab.

“-and these are the prerequisites for Mikado University.”

 

Yuma turns a little greener.

 

 “Border provides all agents with recommendation letters, should they need it.” Rindo comforts, “Here’s a draft of yours,”

 

Yuma squints at the document.

 

_“In his five years of service, agent Kuga Yuma has displayed many admirable traits, such as his ability to make effective decisions quickly in times of crisis-”_

“Fighting during invasions,” Rindo translates.

_“-consistently proven himself a stellar performer in Border’s many team-building exercises-”_

“Following orders to punch people in rank wars-”

_“-most prominently, he has represented his nation in multiple diplomacy and immersion trips overseas, leaving indelible changes for the better in his host countries-”_

“Punching neighbours in the Neighbourhood” Rindo finishes.

“My side-effect says it isn’t lying… _technically,_ ” Yuma frowns _,_

“Good enough for me. Never hurts to pad your resume.”

 

A door creaks down the hall, followed by quick pitter-patters of footsteps. Rindo snaps to attention.

“Follow my lead,” He whispers just as Yotaro bursts into the room. Raijinmaru snuffles dutifully behind him.

 

“I’m home!” Yotaro declares, toeing off his cartoon socks and nudging them by the door.

“Welcome back. Have you eaten?”

“Nope!” Yotaro says, “I’m starving!” he says, dropping his bag without looking.

“Just in time, we’re just about to start lunch. How does katsudon sound?”

 

Yotaro’s stomach growls.

 

“Go wash the rice. We’ll join you in a sec.” Rindo smiles.

“Yuma too?” Yotaro asks.

“Yuma too,” Rindo smiles. Yuma stifles the urge to hurl at the mention of food,

“Will he be ok? A little bird told me he got wasted last night,” Yotaro asks, concern and trace amounts of amusement in his voice.

 

Rindo can’t stop the tension marring his face before Yuma notices.

 

“...How’d you know that, squirt?” Yuma asks.

“A little bird told me.” Yotaro shrugs. “Magpie. She roosts near your house,”

 

Right, Yuma had forgotten about his side effect; their youngest Tamakoma member never brought it up with the same frequency as Jin.

 

“-she tells me the juicy stuff if I feed her my cereal, her favourite is chocolate rice puffs.” Yotaro continues like he’s introducing a classmate. Raijinmaru snorts, and it must have meant something, because Yotaro laughs and scratches behind her ears.

 

“Yotaro,” Rindo starts.

 

“-how many times must I tell you to stop gossiping with the animals?” Yotaro completes, lowering his voice to mimic Rindo’s gravelly octave, “That’s not how you use your side-effect responsibly.”

 

“Yotaro….” Rindo warns, voice even.

“Fine,” Yotaro says, “I’ll stop,”

 

It’s a lie; even Rindo can tell from the way Yotaro keeps his voice unapologetic and his gaze belligerent.

 

He turns to leave, ushering Raijinmaru out, before pausing.

“Is it true Osamu and Chika are at Aftokrator?” He asks, grabbing the doorjamb something fierce with pudgy little fingers.

“No, Yotaro, they’re on a scouting mission in Kyoto,” Rindo answers before Yuma can, “Yuma’s staying here to take it easy and rest, remember?”

 “Megumi saw Osamu packing,”

 

Aside to Yuma, he explains.

 

“The magpie, her name. I didn’t choose it, she told me herself.”

 

He returns his stare to Rindo, “It’s not that cold in Kyoto. I checked. He brought a coat and –”

 

“You know how Osamu is. He’ll be back soon,” Yuma intercepts, “I’ll tell him to buy those Choconana souvenir sweets you like,”

 

Yotaro blinks, not expecting Yuma’s corroboration.

 

“Okay,” he says, scratching Raijinmaru, “I’ll go wash the rice.”

Rindo slumps back in his chair once Yotaro leaves. They wait till they hear the water pipe that runs through the office and into the kitchen roar to life.

 

“Is it Hyuse?” Yuma asks.

“It’s Yotaro,” Rindo sighs. Yuma knows that if he had his choice he’d never have to be around children. “He keeps talking about a neighbour friend who has horns and likes dorayakis.”

 

Yuma can’t see the problem with that.

 

“Half those kids had their houses destroyed and family killed by, ah, you already know."

 

Yuma wishes he'd just say it - it isn't a dirty word.

 

"They thought he was joking at first, but then he started bringing pictures that Hyuse drew for him of Aftokrator. I’m not sure if he brought photos of- Well, his teacher wasn’t all that clear when she called...I heard he put up a damn good fight when they tore them up, at least.”

 

Yuma looks straight at the screensaver on Rindo’s laptop, the little Border logo bouncing off each wall of the screen.

 

“Hyuse isn’t coming back. He really can’t, or doesn’t want to. I just- Yotaro is still- You know, Jin and Konami, they never were so-”

 

Rindo gives up. Jin and Konami weren’t as hopeful? As daring? As stupid? Jin and Konami were soldiers and Yotaro a martyr? The elders want to live what little they had left, slow and safe. The young are going to school with a gravestone in their hearts. He bends a cigarette around his pointer; tobacco spills out.

 

“It’s time for lunch,” Yuma says, and Rindo flings the ruined cigarette into the bin.

 

“It is,” He agrees, standing. His back cracks in exertion. If he had his way he’d never be near anyone younger than thirty.

 

“Remind me to order that banana-choco-whatever later,” he complains, “I’m docking those from your pay,”

 

×

 

“It is a great honour to be here tonight with our allies from Meeden on the anniversary of our great war-” Some Aftokratian politician begins, on the stage in a dark, cold room. Izumi tugs the last strawberry free from his hat, now resting on his lap.

 

“Is that really all you can tell us?”

“Don’t want to jinx it. Jin said it’ll happen soon anyway.”

“A good future then,” Izumi says.

“No comment,” Tachikawa mumbles.

 

Kunichika plucks a small pink fruit from the brim of Tachikawa’s hat, her own already divested of its fruity décor.

 

“You don’t look too happy,” she chews.

“Smart,” Tachikawa replies. He hasn’t touched his own hat, not even the powdery blue something-or-others that reminds him of mochis. Izumi and Kunichika look at each other from where they sat, flanking their captain.

“Why did Jin-san tell you if he knew you were going to be this upset?” Kunichika asks, pulling a fistful of grapes from its stitchings. Dinner wouldn’t start until the speeches were over; from the way the speaker droned on, the appetizers would be served at daybreak.

 

“No comment,”

 

“L-O-V-E-R-S  S-P-A-T” Izumi mouths to Kunichika.

 

“Going on record,” Tachikawa warns, “things are fine. I just don’t want to fuck this future up, so let’s stop the rumour mill right there.”

 

Izumi and Kunichika look at each other.

 

“Well?”

 

“No comment,” both say, helping themselves to more fruit.

 

 

 

 

 

Izumi swivels to join another conversation:

 

“Well?” he whispers.

“Not what I heard.” Kikuchihara whispers. “Heard down the operators’ grapevine that they haven’t talked in weeks. We think your captain’s bunking in Border so he doesn’t have to go home to his boyfriend.”

“They’re staying together?” Utagawa whispers, huddling nearer.

Izumi twists his open palm back and forth by his ear, brows furrowed. _Can’t Hear You_.

 

Before his boyfriend inevitably screams into his ears, Kikuchihara elbows him,

“No, they just use the same shampoo and shop from the same fucking bargain bin- get your shit together.”

 

“Oh right, that place near the Marketgrave?” Utagawa ignores the thorns in Kikuchihara’s tone.

 

“Volume, guys,”

“Your captain’s on power-saver mode, look at him.”

 

 

The three gossips turn; Tachikawa doesn’t stir, staring vacantly at the far ceiling.

 

Izumi sighs.

 

 

 

“Heard anything else?”

“What do you think of Kyoto?”

“It’s, um, historical….and heritage…and so on?”

“A bottle of Yakult has more culture than you.”

“Don’t mind him-“

“Best go read the Idiot’s Guide to Temple Etiquette before you get deployed there.”

“No way?”

“It’s been decided?”

 

Kikuchihara preens; first in line with the information, as usual.

“Shortlisted. You might just be sitting next to the next Branch Head of Border, Kyoto Div.”

 

“Tachikawa-san? Branch Head?”

“You need that in writing? Or are blondes too dumb for that too?”

“He means ‘congratulations’,” Utagawa corrects.

“Hell no, I mean ‘condolences’,”

“Branch Head? He can’t remember the kanji for his given name—”

“sshhcchh! Volume-”

“Relax, Blondie, it’s not a big zone. R&D says Kyoto base is probably Tamakoma-ish or smaller. He can handle it.”

“Alone?”

“You could apply for transfer too,” Utagawa comforts.

At least Kiku was honest; Utagawa meant _condolences_ too — he meant _thank god it wasn’t **our** team being split_.

 

“Yeah, yeah, details. But the real juicy part is-“

“What do they even have in Kyoto? That weird choco-nana—“

“Hey, **hey** ,” Kikuchihara snaps, patience wearing shorter than his captain.

“I’m listening,”

“Same,” Izumi apologizes.

“I’ll tell you what Kyoto’s known for — not bonchi crackers. _Capisci_?”

 

The ball drops.

 

The irrelevant politician clears his throat.

 

 “-And now, I’m honoured to present our diplomats from Meeden with a token of appreciation and friendship.”

 

He raises a gargantuan edible arrangement filled with the finest of Ellin harvests. “May we now invite Border’s strongest , Mr Tachikawa Kei, on stage to say a few words,”

 

The entirety of Earth’s entourage blinks.

 

“Was this in the schedule?” Osamu whispers to a grim Hyuse.

 

“An impromptu speech? Tachikawa-san?” Izumi whispers, eyes wide as Tachikawa stands and makes his way slowly to the stage. The room is filled with polite clapping.

 

“Oh dear,” Kunichika squeaks. Tachikawa’s straw hat is crushed in her small fists, and juice is dripping down its brim.

 

“Ninomiya-san, please, we agreed you wouldn’t have more than four a day,” Tsuji coaxes, playing tug-of-war with a pack of painkillers. Inukai joins in to even the odds, but Ninomiya has the grip of a mother-to-be in the delivery room.

 

“Just one more before we embarrass our dimension—“

 

“You’re the only sniper we’ve got,” Kazama coaxes, an uneasy Chika inching her chair away from him, “-just take the shot.”

 

 

 

 “Thank you, Mr. Lichver” Tachikawa says, shaking the Politician’s hand firmly. He breaks eye contact to stare at the hand he’s shaking; the small falter sends a wave of trepidation through the Meeden table. Then it’s over, and he’s confidently striding to the microphone.

 

“Good evening, House Ellin of Aftokrator,”

He smiles, pauses for the polite applause to stop.

“The agents of Border are honoured to be here tonight. On behalf of Meeden’s entourage tonight, we extend our sincere gratitude to our gracious hosts tonight — thank you for your warm welcome into your home, when we are so far from ours.”

Izumi keeps his gaze fixed. Tachikawa doesn’t glance once in their direction.

“Today marks the five year anniversary of our great war, five years of dedication to diplomacy and peace —”

When the microphone crackles with static, Tachikawa doesn’t flinch, simply waits with a serene expression. Beside Osamu, Hyuse is glaring at the speakers, one hand tight on his tablet.

“Thank you for your efforts, it is amazing to see two dimensions seated together tonight as allies, friends, even. The only thing that separates us tonight is,” he pauses for a tense second, “-who will wrongly choose the chocolate dip over the cheese at dessert. That’s one argument we can’t ever hope to reconcile,”

The crowd bursts into laughter; the spotlight catches the sharp rims of raised glasses and sharper smiles in the dark room.

“-so here’s to tonight, a wonderful night of celebration, and to many more years of peace between us,”

To resounding applause, Tachikawa receives the gift from the sniveling politician’s hand, a dashing smile on his face as a photographer takes a commemorative photo.

 

 

Ninomiya finally releases the painkillers, and Chika scoots back slowly to the table. Kunichika flicks juice and pith off her fingers, continuing to engulf fruits.

Tachikawa makes his way back to the table with the edible arrangement, stopping once and again to greet the dignitaries with smiles and warm handshakes.

Border’s strongest indeed, always rising to the occasion.

 

He’s such a good actor. It almost fools Izumi.

 

×

 

Hyuse chokes on a mango slice when he hears the news. The dinner continues in full swing and no one notices.

Between coughs, he demands, “Why didn’t I hear about this?”

“He didn’t want to make a big deal out of it,” Osamu soothes, poking at the fruits on his dish.

Aftokratians firmly believed in dessert being a meal in and of itself. Once dinner concluded, a sprawling buffet table was presented, with cheese and chocolate fondue fountains taller than a rabit. Osamu and Hyuse snagged a few pieces of fruit and a sizable dollop of chocolate escaping into the hallway, safe from the ensuing stampede.

“They operated on him with a coffin right under the table, and he didn’t want to- when else are you supposed to make a big deal?” Hyuse splutters, uncharacteristically agitated.

“He’s fine now, just resting back home until the doctors give him the OK.”

Hyuse was sulking into his fruit platter now, debating the possibility of hitching a ride back to Meeden to slap the younger neighbor.

“I’m sure,” Osamu adds on, before Hyuse clears his schedule to rain justice on the recovering Yuma, “that he just didn’t want you to worry.”

“I’m not worried,” Hyuse says, stabbing his skewer through a chunk of apple and through his Styrofoam plate, “he’s just an idiot, and I didn’t want to miss his funeral.”

Osamu laughs. They’ve strolled out from the dessert rampage and its din, shedding their horrendous ceremonial coats once they reached the warm of the small garden out back. Without the ugly bulk of the coat, nothing hides the tired sag of fatigue clear on Hyuse’s skinny shoulders or the slight trembling in his arms.

Hyuse notices him staring, and shoots back a glare, inviting him to quit it, or state his business.

“Hyuse, is something wrong?” Osamu asks, swirling a strawberry in chocolate.

“You’re not my captain anymore,” Hyuse replies, curt the way he always was, but not unkindly. “It’s out your hands”

“I’m still your friend,” Osamu insists, before shrinking back a little “…sort of?”

 

Hyuse laughs, a breathless little huff, before nodding. “Sort of.”

 

It’s only early evening for the exhausted two; the streets are again aglow in sickly green. Tonight, they seem dimmer than they were; Hyuse prays it’s a trick of his eyes.

 

“This stays between the two of us,” Hyuse starts, slipping his empty plate into a nearby bin. Osamu follows suit, and they sit, slumped against a shrub with branches knotted so thick it made a firm wall to lean upon.   

Hyuse selects a blue flower piece, snapping it from the shrub and peeling off a thin layer of its tough stem, then he plucks out the browning petals, then flicks his nail against it once, shaking grey pollen loose. Then he eats it, leaves and all.

“Do you want one? Shake some pollen out if you still have work to do.”

“No thanks,” Osamu says, recognizing the flowers Yuma gorged himself on, proceeding to recite poetry in a language no one understood for the rest of the night. “You go ahead, you look like you need it.”

“Just say I look like shit, Mikumo,” Hyuse rasps through the pollen.

“You look awful,” Osamu agrees, and they stare at each other before bursting into laughter. Osamu reaches behind him for a small, small flower, flicking out most of the pollen and carefully mimicking Hyuse’s preparation before laying it on his tongue, chewing thoughtfully,

“You might as well just eat the grass,” Hyuse grumbles, pushing him a larger, prepared flower.

Osamu accepts it, nibbling slowly on it, “Have you stalled enough?”

“Ha. Ha.” Hyuse replies tonelessly, “Not quite.”

Osamu nods, and they watch the green glow of the streets in silence.

No mistake of it, they’re dimming. The grieving swell in his heart rises again, as it has for every evening in the recent months. He’s not ready, but there’s no stalling this.

“You protected my Lord five years ago, when he was to be sacrificed as God. I’m grateful; the whole House is,” Hyuse starts.

“But Meeden made many more enemies in the process. We staved off the worst by calling for mandatory trion donations, to fuel this planet, but it won’t last for long. We’re using the cadaver of our old god as a conduit of sorts, pumping the trion through him-”

Hyuse points at where his own trion gland would be.

 “-and into our land. But even then, his body is won’t sustain us forever, and the families, they’re getting –”

Hyuse makes a face, ah, the pollen was still potent and pungent, and the petals these days did little to sweeten them. They shrank smaller with each harvest, and soon they’d go bitter too.

Before Lord Ellin, the harvest and days were bitter. You couldn’t eat the flowers straight from the stem  unless you wanted a taste of the devil himself. So the illicit flower dens grinded up the flowers, added who-knows-whats to them, let the masses smoke them like chimneys.

It wasn’t so far from where they were, where his cousins simply collapsed one day and stopped moving, and a farmer came later, heavy mask over his nose and mouth to collect the fallen flowers. He hated the euphemism, no matter how apt and cruel it was. The sight never left him, the farmer’s firm, gloved hands on their prone limbs, pulling them up,

only for their skin to slide right off wet flesh as plucked stems did. They’d gone completely blue underneath, grey powder shaking out of each pore.

There were campaigns after, bright education, telling them how the flowers never were meant to processed with frictional heat and treated with chemicals. Eat them fresh, the scientists toiled to explain, then made the petals bloom larger and sweeter in their labs, and grew them where the evicted dens stood. The fourth year into Lord Ellin’s rule, Hyuse was welcomed as an adoptee under a smooth blue sky, uninterrupted by columns of smoke.

Hyuse is thinking of the past again, which means that the flowers were taking effect. Concentration is clear on his face as he tries to steer the conversation back on track.

“The families are getting-“

“Restless?” Osamu supplies.

“That’s too nice,” Hyuse says. “They’re getting excited, for war, of course, and most of all — they’re getting ready.”

The garden feels too cold suddenly. Hyuse pulls the ugly coat from where he’d tossed it on the grass, burying his hands in the rough wool.

 

“The safety of Lord Ellin is compromised. Heavily. Now that Meeden is involved, it’s much easier for the other houses to rally against us, accuse us of anti-Aftokratian sentiments. We’ve kept Hyrein’s forces at bay well enough, but with other houses rallying…things look…”

“Bad?” Osamu completes.

“That’s too nice,” Hyuse sighs, and reaches for another flower.

×

 

×

“Why hasn’t an official notice been sent to Border?”

Hyuse doesn’t make eye contact with Osamu, instead looking to the brighter lights of the ballroom. It brings no comfort.

“Despite what your top attacker said up there, we know Meeden won’t help us if the risk’s too great. Our allyship is shaky at best – I’ve seen the way they talk about us, Osamu.”

 

“That’s not our primary concern. Never has been.” Osamu bristles, his voice a frozen sword. “We’ve always functioned on a semi-independent basis of Mikado, regardless. And we could well be the next target. If they decide on a strategic elimination of House Ellin’s allies, then you might as well make this our war, and give us a fighting chance.”

 

Hyuse hates the way Osamu has grown. He still had that bullheaded determination to him. But now it was fearful, now Lady Justice is peeking under her blindfold, dancing with Politics, sword by her hip, letting the scales sway and tip, choosing sides; weighing evidence against emotions. Hyuse wishes he could steal the blindfold from her and not watch his once-captain grow further.

 

“Stop,” Hyuse insists, “I never asked that of you.” Osamu wasn’t an orphan like he…the last he checked anyway. Didn’t he think of his mother when he chose to stand with neighbours? Didn’t he know how much cruelty could be inflicted even without trion and triggers?

 

“Let me speak to Tamakoma at least,” Osamu insists.

 

“And what can they do without the rest of Border?”

 

Osamu is silent, but there’s a flame razing his forest eyes.

 

“If you must,” Hyuse concedes, “I know Meeden has been to the other nation planets, and has collected their triggers.”

 

“You want me to steal them?”

 

“On the name of Ellin! No! Give me that flower; you’ve gone pollen-mad. I ask for assistance and you say No, Let Me Start A Civil War Back Home Too, Let’s Have Matching Political Climates-”

 

“Do you want me to sit back and watch then?”

 

“That’s what the rest of your army is doing; it’s called tactical observation-”

 

“Hyuse, I’m your friend-”

 

“And I’m yours as well!” Hyuse nearly screams, then catches himself, “-but now be a soldier, go home and wait for news.”

They sit in silence, upset through the soft haze of the flowers. The garden remains silent; no security guard has come by to investigate the two idiots screaming in the garden. With any luck, they’d gone in to grab some fondue as well. Hyuse regrets coming out as well,

but not as much as what he’d regret what he was about to do.

“Oof-“

Osamu stares at the heavy coat thrown on him.

“Put it on, button it up. Make sure this-” he says, tapping a gloved hand on his forearm, where Osamu’s Border logo was emblazoned, “-is covered, got it?”

 

The grand staircase is brightly lit and completely empty, so are the halls after that. Even through the thick coat Hyuse has given him, Osamu feels the chill set in the further they go. There’s not much conversation between the two, and Osamu distracts himself by observing the architecture they rush by.

Ellin didn’t seem to like flashiness, there were no ornaments, no bright colours, nothing beyond simple, brown signs stuck to the walls to differentiate the many halls. Osamu easily envisions Hyuse growing up in these plain halls, going about his duties diligently.

They reach a central hall, with tan sofas and nothing else arranged about a glass pillar. Within its four walls were the strangest, most beautiful fruits, boasting of Ellin’s technology, even compensating for their dismal interior design.  

“Stop staring,” Hyuse orders, “you’re being too obvious.”

Hyuse barely acknowledges the brimming garden, straining against its glass room. Even in the dark outside, Osamu can see countless stars. Perhaps Ellin simply didn’t care for being indoors, who would, when their land was so much more beautiful under the sky?

Hyuse notices Osamu still staring, and sighs as he fusses with his hair, tucking loose strands behind his horns so they stand out, prominent with authority.

The labs are empty, Hyuse can’t hear anything beyond the thick doors, and quickly enters his code into the worn keypad.

It was so cold, his fingers tremble and fumble onto the wrong buttons. Twice, then thrice. Hyuse can’t bear to think of why the heater was so intermittent these days. He’s got himself locked out of his own office, and has to move to the other pane authoritively, hoping Osamu hasn’t noticed his blunder.

He lowers his head against a dark glass, and bathes himself in a green glow that run up, then down the contours of his horns. Then the door opens.

“I wanted to wait till Yuma was here, but I’m not so sure we have that luxury.” Hyuse said, forcing arrogance into his voice as he slipped into the darkness of the room.

 “Don’t just stand there,” Hyuse calls, unseen. Osamu steps into the darkness after him, sure he was to trip on a loose wire and barrel into Hyuse in three steps.

**“It’s good to see you again, Osamu”**

Osamu freezes, unsure where to face, but responds into the darkness anyway.

“…Replica?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Choconana souvenir sweets are real, and the local specialty _(miyagegashi)_ of Kyoto. They're known properly as _Nama Yatsuhashi_ , and come in a variety of flavours - peach, black sesame, red bean, and soda, because Japan goes hard as hell.


	6. Tailor Tinker Soldiers Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter contains depictions of purging and eating disorders. Please enter 'just relax' into your browser's search function to skip any triggering material.)

**#1** : You recite the sin before paying penance.

The cubicle is your confessional, just too dirty to kneel in. Quietly, you count your wrongs: The soup (145), The appetizer (???) The entrée (???)( _Damn these Aftokratian meals!)_ and of course,

The dessert (580++).

Then you

 **#2:** Tie your hair back and you

 **#3:** Have your makeup bag with you and you

 **#4:** Gorged yourself with water then you just

 **#5:** bow deeply, right over the ceramic bowl, and put three fingers in-

And remember the first heave is the hardest.

Each time you do this you forget your hands are dry and taste like sweat. Each time you do this you remember how easy each wave comes up easy. Halfway through there’s an ebb and on some days you’d end it there but today you press on, pushing the soft flesh of your belly up to the jut of your ribs, and more chokes up.  

_Make yourself empty, empty empty_

The side effect is silent, but you hear the mantra-

 _just disappear, disappear disappear._  

 **#6** : Wipe the slime off your fingers with a rough paper towel and flush the toilet. Wonder if you’re crying from the exertion or worry at why you don’t feel guilty at all.

×

When she unlocks the cubicle and steps outside, Shiori looks up from her phone from where she’s leaning against the way, face unreadable in the dim light.

Therefore, Chika wobbles to the sink instead and rinses the sourness out her mouth. When she looks up, she notes, dismayed, that her foundation is ruined, smooth beige parting like a curtain under her eyes, revealing puberty-mottled skin beneath. Shiori approaches her like a wounded animal, waiting for Chika to turn on her own volition.

“Close your eyes,” Shiori directs, pulling brushes out her makeup bag. Chika tries to still her quavering legs, but ends up leaning against the sink anyway, letting the drips at the hard edge soak through her dress as the soft brush tickles her cupid’s bow.

In the distance, behind the doors, there’s laughter and footsteps and they’re approaching. Her side effect trembles awake, a low warning growl that snaps into a mad guttural barking as the footsteps get closer. She exhales and holds her breath until the footsteps pad away. When it’s clear they aren’t coming towards her, her side effect circles once and before lying down again, sleepy.

“Close your eyes, please” Shiori says, eyeshadow brush in hand, waiting for Chika to notice that she’d been staring in the distance, full of fear. Chika lowers her eyelids, keeps them open just a crack. She sees the brush moving through her lashes, barely feels them for the light hand Usami uses; in the dimness, Chika thinks the operator spends her time like this, patching bugs in a code, stitching rips, nursing bruises.

“All better,” Usami says, not scolding or faulting, brief as a pop-up notification.

“Yes,” Chika says, unpressured to apologize though the word lingers on the back of her stinging throat. Usami clicks her compact shut and holds Chika by her elbow, leading her to the lounge outside.

“You really shouldn’t leave your things lying around,” Usami says, when they reach the plush sofas, “Osamu-kun called us to meet him, and you weren’t answering your phone” she lets Chika buckle her knees and fall gracelessly on the seat.

“I’ll call him back,” Chika croaks, before spending the next five minutes digging fruitlessly through her purse for her phone.

She’s near tears when Usami pulls her to lean on her, and starts texting instead.

×

“Stop,” Hyuse whispers at the edge of a corner. They hide in the angled darkness, listening to convivial laughing in the flood of light adjacent to them.

“We greatly appreciate your efforts,” Osamu strains to hear, “It must have been difficult to collect this data so quickly.”

“Not just,” comes the testy reply, “Near impossible! But we made it happen,”

“We can’t thank you enough for that,” comes the calm reply, followed by a clear, resounding tinkle of champagne glasses.

“What allies you Meeden folk make,” a pause, an aggressive sip of champagne that can only be described as an enthusiastic and obnoxiously loud sucking, “but we make it happen anyway,” he repeats

 

“Indeed, you have our gratitude,’ the polite character replies. Osamu thinks the speaker would soon exhaust a thesaurus trying to thank the prickly character.

“Well, I hope that’s not _all_ we have,” he says, “Thanks alone won’t get us through a war, no, no it won’t,” and without waiting for a reply, footsteps pad down the hall, away from where Osamu and Hyuse crouch.

There’s a brief silence, but long shadows still dance on the walls. With every miniscule shift of the ugly jacket Osamu holds him in, Replica rattles and whirrs, beeping softly at regular intervals. Stringy wires thread between his sliced halves, clinging to a glowing cuboid by lengths of flimsy tape. There are dings and scratches on his shell, and a startling crack across one of his eyes. Osamu holds his breath, and pulls him closer.

“We’ll go around the back,” Hyuse whispers.

“FISH PORRIDGE FOR BABIES.” Replica bellows in reply. “INGREDIENTS: ONE CUP RICE-”

“Shit,” Hyuse hisses, sticking a hand into the cotton blanket and yanking out multicoloured wires.

“TWO CUPS WATE-TWO CUPS-“

Hyuse rips at the glowing cuboid, much to Osamu’s horror. Replica sputters horribly, clicking and screeching white noise before falling silent.

“Oh,” Inukai says, popping his head round the corner, looking more bemused than surprised at the two eavesdroppers – one carrying a baby-like bundle in a hideous swaddling blanket, the other with an offensively green battery in his hand, shock etched on their faces.

“Oh,” Tsuji says, appearing behind Inukai, the same thoughtful look on his face. He turns; Osamu can’t see his face, before he shuffles off with Inukai.

Seconds later, Ninomiya stands tall above their kneeling figures.

“Oh.” Ninomiya says, with a hint more derision in his voice than usual. Two devices jut from his clenched fist, each the size of a small chocolate bar, and just as innocuous. Osamu’s seen those back on Earth, devices similar to thumbdrives. Each, he was told (in esoteric technical jargon courtesy of Raizō), had the capacity of a hundred Earth hard drives.

Two, then, in Ninomiya’s hand, seemed to be of grave importance indeed, and the man’s expression seemed to confirm this.

“Mikumo,” Ninomiya starts, “good, this saves me the trouble of looking for you.”

Hyuse and Osamu straighten, rainbow wires spouting from their hands and dribbling to the floor. Replica beeps pathetically.

“Gather your team, we’re leaving in an hour”

“What? This trip was supposed to be-”

“Oh!” Tachikawa says, sauntering by, suitcase rolling to a halt by his ankles. He waves his team ahead, Izumi wearing his now fruitless hat, hands full of soft toys, while their operator easily rolls their suitcases with each hand, trailing behind. Kazama squad steps up behind them, suitcases beside them as well.

“I see you’ve obtained the trion soldier,” Kazama says, “then our business here is done.”

Hyuse stiffens behind Osamu, his grip on the glowing battery tightening.

Osamu glances back, eyes wide in consternation: _I have no idea what’s going on._

“How did you…?”

“Mission briefing,” Tachikawa pipes up, though Kazama’s mouth is already open. Osamu knows by experience that he’s bolstering him from what could have been a much more cutting reply. The top attacker of Border was swift and true, but the second believed that ends justified the means – cruelty was allowed in efficiency’s name.

“Our _elite_ operative tipped us off that this mission would involve with the reconnaissance of a certain someone.” Tachikawa tips his head to the silent trion soldier.

“Jin-san did?” Osamu asks, stepping forward to put himself between Hyuse and Tachikawa. Behind him, Hyuse is bristling at the mention of the clairvoyant already, and Osamu doesn’t need a side effect to see trouble brewing.

“Tachikawa san,” Kazama snaps, and Osamu feels the air shift around them. “there’s no need to go further,” he looks at Osamu, through Osamu, from the bundle in his hands to the roiling confusion in him.

“ _Our_ mission brief is confidential, I’ll remind you” Kazama says, and steps away, his team falling behind him.

“oh” Osamu says. Tachikawa stays to regard him a moment longer, his curiosity at Osamu’s reaction pushing propriety aside for a brief second, before he too trails away. Ninomiya follows closely.

“Withholding information from their own team? Dirty, but unsurprising,” Hyuse says, calm, but definitely loud enough for the others to hear. Osamu sees slight movement of the multicolour wires, quavering with indignation.

Osamu struggles to remember his mission past the fog of memories, past the awkward but jovial night of Truth or Dare on deck, past the bleary morning of shared instant coffee on the ship, past the dinner they shared in the dark room, bonded as diplomats of Meeden. The briefing was but a day ago, but Osamu despairs when his train of thought reaches its terminal.

 “There has to be a reason” Osamu says, resolute, _especially if Jin was involved_ , he doesn’t say.

“The reason is war,” Hyuse retorts, impatient at his ex-captain’s delusions of comradeship.

“War,” Osamu echoes, hollow. His phone is beeping.

Hyuse unwraps the bundle and begins fastening on the wires the best he can. Somewhere in the distance, a maid sees the empty hallway and clicks the lights off, dousing them in darkness. Osamu sees the glowing cuboid shifting in the darkness before it’s tucked into the coat again.

“Guess you didn’t have to worry about _me_ starting a civil war after all,” Hyuse murmurs, pulling Osamu down the hall. Osamu stumbles and trots behind, Replica rattling with each unsteady step.

“No,” Osamu replies, with a clarity that unnerves Hyuse “No, I guess not”. The halls are an inky sea around them, but now he sees better, without smokescreens and mirrors.

They reach his room, fumbling for the switch. Hyuse waits outside the door as Osamu deposits Replica gently on his bed. They stand in silence, neither feeling particularly enthusiastic at the prospect of being alone, but Hyuse’s tablet beeps then, and as though on cue, Osamu’s phone rings.

Osamu turns to look at Hyuse, and they both nod in understanding before Osamu throws him his coat, and Hyuse slips into the dark hallways, leaving the door to slowly close behind him.

 

The phone stops ringing. Osamu types a quick message and sends it in the group chat.

He starts packing his bags, and when he sees a spare length of 12-pack 100% biodegradable cotton briefs in the corner of his luggage, promptly plucks it out, chucking it in the trash.

X

After Kasumi finds Yuma rehearsing his college interview with his reflection in the soup, she wheels him out the front door and shuts the door behind him.

“You’re going to be fine,” She calls from the window, sipping from her “#1 Mum” mug,

“How do you know?” He asks, desperately loading yet another “Top 10 College Interview Tips” article on his phone. The wifi signal drops to two bars.

“Got Osamu to date you, didn’t you?” She says, “It’s a downhill ride from here, trust me,”

“But _he_ asked me to-“

“Not the story I heard,” Kasumi shrugs, shutting the window.

So Yuma steers himself to Mikado City University, trying to enjoy the quiet morning, but as the tall clocktower draws into sight, Yuma feels his confidence flicker.

“I have a boyfriend,” he parrots stiffly, “I have a boyfriend and I can do this,” he mumbles as he rolls along.

Strangely, it works.

The wonders of romantic relationships on self-efficacy aside, Yuma finds the rest of his journey filled with less dread, distracting himself with happier thoughts.

Namely, thoughts of Osamu.

In the fifteen-minute journey, he comes to two independent conclusions:

  1. He loves Osamu
  2. Osamu was undeniable proof that natural selection kind of fudged up somewhere in the whole _survival of the fittest concept_



He was kind and upstanding to a fault, gentle when it disadvantaged him and irredeemably stubborn where experience and wisdom would _strongly_ advise otherwise. Objectively weak too, with the trion stats and ample second opinions from senior Border agents to prove it – the sort that wouldn’t survive the lunch hour stampede in the neighbourhood, let alone an actual war.

Still, Yuma thinks, that’s kind of what heroes _are_ , underdogs and idiots with titanium faith, a hyperimmunity to failure, and most of all, a deep, intrinsic disrespect for whatever guardian angel was going through hell every other day to keep them from flatlining.

He loves one of Border’s PR nightmares, and he wouldn’t have it any other way, he thinks, as he rolls past the gates of the university.

No one pays him any mind in the half empty courtyard - the venn diagram of 'sleep-addled students' and 'heads buried in textbooks' around him seemed to be a circle. No, no one's looking, but Yuma makes a beeline for the ramp into the Administration Building, ignoring the swaying greenery outside.

He’d never been one to worry about the way he looked before the surgery, simply because growing up in the neighbourhood meant you had pathetically low standards - You were fast, you were strong, and you were alive - that was pretty much the prerequisite for _someone_ to find you tolerable enough.

And life remained easy around Osamu. They’d never looked back since they fell together half a decade ago, when his dying body hibernated in a frozen trion shell. There was no reason, then, that Osamu should start resenting his appearance now, with his jet-black limbs and his newly-refitted glass eye.

But the world beyond Osamu, beyond Border: that strikes fresh fear in him.

The threat of a neighbour invasion has barely dented the preoccupation with beauty amongst the civilians – a testament to Border’s prowess. Yuma watches the others go down the assembly line of Clothes, Cosmetics, Hair, and Etiquette from the sidelines, unsure when he could step in line, somehow certain going through the motions would make a factory reject of him anyhow.

Not much lay beyond his looks either - He was a friendly enough character, he supposes. Strong; though that was superficially relevant outside of Border. Heavily more street smart than conventionally intelligent, which only made the elevator ride to the office that much more nerve-wracking.

He catches his reflection on the glass door outside the office and turns away. If Osamu proclaims to have dated him for his good looks, he is either lying, or needing another trip to his optometrist for stronger prescriptive glasses.

Then again, Osamu, being Osamu, made bad choices all the time, against all logic.

Which makes Yuma just that: a terrible decision.

“Kuga Yuma!” A voice calls from the end of the hall.

“ _So_ nice to see you again!” pipes another voice.

It’s a lie.

The three idiots, taller than before and half as welcome as fruit flies, snicker and swagger to him.

“What happened? Got banged up after dropping out?” One asks, brows sloped in a dramatic show of mock pity.

Yuma tenses at the mention of his involuntary withdrawal from school. Being forced into private tutelage at Border after his trion body started drawing attention wasn’t a cherished memory, and the ensuing isolation even less so.

“Welcome back to civilization” Another sneers, “Guess delinquents deserve second chances too.” He flicks a finger against Yuma’s trion arm.

“No, no, that’s not what _I_ heard,” the third leers, “I heard he was _kicked out_ ,”

The others gasp loudly on cue and snigger.

“That’s right,” he continues, “I heard he was caught, hmmm, how to say, getting a little too _comfortable_ with another student,” he turns to Yuma, his hyenas _oohing_ beside him, “Is that true, Kuga?”

Yuma weighs the consequences of breaking his nose.

“Yeah, yeah, is it? Tell us!” the other snorts, barely concealed glee in his voice, “Because you know,” he says, dropping his false excitement, malice clear in his voice “Mikumo wouldn’t tell us.”

The scales tip over in favour of violence just as the door opens, the receptionist calling him in. He grips the wheels and runs over their toes on his way into the room.

“Yeah, go on!” One cries, clutching his foot, “I’d wish you good luck if Border hasn’t already given you a ticket in, you-“

The door closes behind him, but Yuma hears enough to know it isn’t a lie.

In the small office, the interviewer ignores him while the founder’s bronze statue stares at him.  

“COMMUNITY IS OUR GREATEST STRENGTH” screams the large plaque beneath.

“And that excludes you, Neighbour filth” the bust seems to say, when Yuma notices the inscription below indicate that he died nine years ago.

When the first invasion took place.

 “Alright, Mr Kuga, your paperwork seems to be in order, so let’s get the ball rolling. Could you tell me simply, what makes you a desirable candidate?”

 _You tell me,_ Yuma thinks, despairing, when he processes that Osamu never mentioned the three idiots; not even once since he left high school.

Yuma twists his ring left, then right.

x

Their sendoff is of little fanfare, only a few Aftokratians watching them pile onto the expedition ship in silence. Hyuse, for all his disdain for the ugly outfit, has slipped into his coat again, a mark of silent respect, at least for his old team.

 “For Yotaro,” he says simply, handing Osamu a small metal pan. Osamu receives the cold offering silently. It’s orange, from what he can see past the condensation, but not much else.

“I’ll make sure he gets it.” Osamu says, smiling, glad that Yotaro’s unabashed affection for Hyuse was mutual. “Thank you, Hyuse,” he adds on, more somber, “for everything.”

“Not yet,” he huffs dismissively, trying to sound composed and matter of fact, not terrified like they both know they are. Osamu’s seen Kitora rehearsing enough before public speeches to see past his bravado.  “Now we say good luck, and go to war.”

“Yes,” Osamu says. “Good luck, Hyuse,”

He turns and takes the pie up the ship, too preoccupied to notice when Chika avoids all eye contact with the pastry. Osamu turns to look at Hyuse once again, wondering if they’d meet again.

The expedition ship starts up with a massive roar, and they hurtle off into space. Only then does he sit Usami and Chika down, unravelling Replica. They sit in their team room, silently quarantined from the others, watching as Usami try with her sparse equipment to repair their old friend.

“I’m kind of glad we’re going home,” Chika admits.

Osamu holds her hand, and they stay like that in their small room, a small piece of home each in their palms and a square foot of a warzone in their hearts.

x

The ship has barely left when his left arm is gripped tightly, right above his elbow.

“Hyuse of Ellin” the authority says, his eyes not leaving Hyuse’s horns.

Hyuse looks behind the tall man, seeing his Lord, sallow and grim. The hand on him would not have stopped him from kneeling, but the rising dread in him does.

“You are under arrest,” the man informs loudly, more to the nobles in attendance than to Hyuse himself. “For treason to the Holy Nation of Aftokrator. We have reason to suspect you’ve abetted a prisoner of war in escaping detention. We will hear what you have to say in the holding cell.”

“Oh, we can let him defend himself here,” trills someone behind the man.

In her hand, pinched, like a piece of trash, was a clear plastic bag.

Inside, a Border standard issue communication device, still glowing bright.

 

 **Osamu-kun, 8.54pm** : Chika, Usami, meet me in my room, quick debrief before we leave.

 **Osamu-kun, 8.55pm** : [photo]

 

Hyuse stares at the familiar hemispheres of Replica’s prone form, complete with the wires he’d attached himself. He has questions, certainly, but staring at the woman, he’s sure he won’t be getting any soon.

“Moira,” Hyuse greets in as level a voice he can muster, but his gums are already showing in a snarl.

“Hyuse,” She greets back, gently swinging the evidence like a pendulum, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All’s [REDACTED] in love and war.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for your patience, I intend to finish this fic by end January. If fics were rollercoasters, consider this the first drop. Please keep your hands in the ride, and screaming in the comment box. Hang tight!


	7. A storm in each skull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in between our cold palms
> 
> superglue!
> 
> exothermic warmth and we laugh
> 
> "We've got chemistry!" 
> 
> "you've got me!"

“ **Place diaper below the baby - - Bring the bottom fold-  baby’s legs – secure with two diaper pins** ” beeps Replica.

“I still can’t believe it,” Yuma says, staring at the two halves of his oldest friend. Wires pulse in and out of Replica, hooked up to Shiori’s large computer at Border’s R&D main office.

“Me neither” Chika sighs, her ibis is a comforting weight on her lap, gleaming without so much of a nick or scratch - perks of using trion tech. She’s rarely deactivated it since their return from Aftokrator, preferring to keep it by her side despite its unwieldiness. “All that searching and-“

 “Yeah,” Yuma breathes, “yeah,” still watching the slow inching of the progress bar on the screen, but even so he’s rattled at the memory of a silent and still Replica, cradled in Osamu’s arms.

“It’s really over, isn’t it?” Chika smiles, turning to Yuma, “My brother’s home, Replica’s back-“

“What about your childhood friend?” Yuma says, and regrets, within a span of a second.

Chika’s face drops – shatters – at the mention of her abducted friend.

“Yes, Aoba,” she whispers, “I can’t believe I forgot,”

“You didn’t mean it like that,” Yuma blusters, tearing his eyes from the screen.

“No I- I’ve been so fixated on my brother, and I-“

“ **Hush little baby** ,” Replica croons “ **Don’t you cry** -“

“I even saw her parents the other day,” Chika whispers, “they were so sad, you could see it — in their eyes — but they were so nice, to me, Yuma, if only they knew-“

“We’ve a lot going on,” Yuma says. He grasps the end of her ibis, hoping the burnished metal could conduct his warmth to her shaking hands. He doesn’t dare touch her.

“If what you’ve told me so far of Aftokrator is true, we’ve got much more coming our way, don’t beat yourself up over this.”

The gun is warm under her hands.

“You sound so much like Osamu,” she whispers.

“What- no I don’t-“

“ **Yuma** ,” Replica calls suddenly,

“Replica?” Yuma says, snapping to attention.

“ **Yuma, the river’s too cold for swimming,** ” Replica says, his eyes glowing. On the wall, a cracked projection plays, of a tawny shore and crashing waves. The chill is palpable even from the old recording, frost coating the flotsam encrusted on the beach.

“I’ll be fine!” The chubby child insists on film, slowly focusing. His voice is distorted from the strong winds, but he bounces on to the cold waters.

“Oh,” Yuma says, disappointed, sitting back down, but his eyes don’t leave the old footage.

“ **Yuma** ,” Replica heaves a mechanical sigh, “ **you can’t swim** ,”

“Teach me!” Yuma yells, plopping one foot in the sea and squealing when he finds that it was cold.

Replica bobs over, resting himself on the surface of the water, the bottom half of the screen is submerged in seafoam and saltwater; the top half never strays from Yuma.

“Cold!” Yuma shrills, clapping his small hands onto Replica and holding himself afloat.

“ **Ok Yuma, don’t let go of me** ,” Replica says placidly as Yuma kicks experimentally, propelling himself haltingly forward.

“I won’t, I won’t!” Yuma says.

“Who’s that drunk frog swimming out there?” Comes a deep, playful voice off-screen.

The camera rotates to a broad-shouldered man on shore, already shucking off his long pants and wading into the water.

“Dad!” Yuma yells, “Replica’s teaching me ta swim!”

“Badly, at that,” Yugo laughs, “Come on, I’ll teach you how to do it - - and why the hell did you choose _winter—“_

The footage pauses sharply, and the progress bar inches forward.

Yuma stares at the frozen screen, looking at his father and himself together. He’s never asked for old photographs from Replica, so the latter had never shared. He studies the man’s features now, nearly a decade later, his straight hair and his sharp nose, so distinctly different from his own curls and button nose. His father truly only lived on within him, the resemblance was non-existent; Yuma can’t decide if that was a blessing or not.

“You were a cute kid” Chika says, as the screen blinks away.

“I’m _still_ cute” Yuma huffs, plopping back down on the sofa

“Maybe by neighbours’ standards,” Osamu says, closing the door behind him and dropping his folder onto the table.

“Osamu-kun” Chika greets, shifting away to make space for him.

“Baby, you wound me,” Yuma says, covering a hand over his heart in mock hurt.

At the pet name, Osamu frowns, flicking his eyes quickly to Chika then glaring at Yuma - _not **now**._

“I don’t mind,” Chika shrugs, “It’s soooo good to be in love,” she sing-songs, watching Osamu shift uncomfortably.

“The both of you are terrible,” Osamu sighs, settling down between his guffawing team, and watching the inert form of Replica.

“So,” Chika starts, switching out her Ibis for a Lightning idly, “how did the meeting go?”

“It didn’t’,” Osamu replies, dour.

Chika hasn’t deactivated her gun, he notes, not even while they’re alone. Times are bad, he supposes, “I pretty much made the trip down to submit my report and then I left. Jin was on ‘elite duty’ and the rest of the expedition trip members weren’t in their rooms. It was a complete waste of time.”

Osamu takes a deep breath.

“I should’ve pissed at their doorsteps for what they pulled,” Osamu says, slumping on Yuma.

“And now _you’re_ sounding like Yuma”

“Well, we _should,”_ says Yuma, ever-supportive.

“It’ll be a good team bonding experience,” Chika agrees, warming up to the idea.

“ **You’re the only one who can make that choice, Yuma**.” Replica says suddenly.

The group stills, and bursts into helpless fits of laughter all at once.

“Hear that? I say we egg their rooms,” Yuma laughs.

“I’ll shoot a black bullet with Ibis, block them from getting in,” Chika suggests viciously.

“And when they get in, they’ll be tripping over my spider traps for _weeks_ ” Osamu wheezes.

They burst into laughter, shaking off the heavy frost of the past few days.

“Haaa—” Chika sighs, sides aching from laughing, “I hate this, really, just waiting for my brother to wake up, waiting for them to feed us information….. makes me feel fourteen all over again.”

“I get that,” Yuma says. He’d spent the last half of his life waiting for many things, to feel alive, to see his friend again, but there was still more waiting to be done, it seems.

“Just one more day…!” Osamu cries, leaning back against the wall. “If only we had more time to talk to Hyuse, we could have cleared something up,”

“He’s still not answering?” Chika asks, “Yotaro loved the pie,”

“Understatement,” Osamu laughs, “He took the whole thing and ran into his room, didn’t he?”

“He misses Hyuse,” Yuma sighs, remembering Rindo’s quiet worry.

Replica shines a wrinkled old drawing on the screen: crayon Yuma and crayon Yugo holding each other’s waxy hands. Replica sits on Yuma’s head, and hearts are floating above them.

Yuma imagines it torn at the hands of his classmates.

“He misses Hyuse,” Yuma repeats, “and the worst thing is that he isn’t allowed to.”

x

“Oi, Rindo, are you coming?”

“Yeah! I just forgot my snacks” Yotaro says, bouncing over.

“You’re such a scatterbrain,” his classmate chides. He thinks her name is-

“Sorry Kyoko, can’t leave without my chocolate puffs,”

“Greedy pig,” another classmate, Mamesuke, jostles him, “Give me some,” he says as an afterthought, cupping his hands into a bowl and Yotaro shakes the cereal in.

“Greedy pig,” Yotaro shoots back, and Mamesuke sticks his tongue out at him.

“I’m not the one with a belly”

Yotaro frowns, looking down at his jutting belly. He thinks of his rotund capybara back home, round things were cute weren’t they?

“It’s not that bad,” he protests

“Yeah, when you compare it to Nikihara-sensei!” Mamesuke laughs boisterously, stuffing all the cereal in his face and rounding his arms in front of his belly, mimicking the swell of her pregnant belly and her slow waddling. “When she walks I feel the earth shake!”

His classmates laugh loudly enough to cover the sound of him dropping a cocoa puff behind him. The birds chirp overhead.

“She looks like a hippo!” Kyoko says, giggling, “We’ll see her relatives when we go to the zoo tomorrow!”

“Yeah!” Yotaro says, his excitement bubbling through the mean joke.

Mikado city zoo was the humble abode of exactly one hundred and twenty-eight animals, mostly small and vegetarian, due to their limited funding. Happily, the animals mostly roamed open enclosures, where Yotaro could comfortably hold a conversation with them. He quite liked the elephants, graceful and gargantuan gentleness that reminded him of mothers, with their wary wisdom, always attentive, like animals saved from poaching always were.

“I wanna go to the petting zone!” he says instead.

“You just wanna see the dumb goats,” Mamesuke takes Yotaro’s hand and shakes the cereal into his own hand. “like that weird neighbour freak you kept showing us”

“Aw, let it go,” Yotaro shrugs, pouting, “Wuz just a joke”

“Wasn’t funny!” Kyoko shrills, “Those monsters wrecked my house!”

“And my brother in law,” Mamesuke says, surly.

“Jeez, sore spot,” Yotaro says, smiling sheepishly, “I said I was s’- _oh_ -reee— already”

“Jerk,” Kyoko says, without much bite. Mamesuke pours out more cereal for himself. It was just a poor attempt at attention-seeking anyway, Yotaro and his tall tale, that weird neighbour with horns, the one that liked dorayakis and drawing and dogs.

The road forks in front of them, past the houses on the left were cheap candy stores and the dorayaki store. Yotaro got his allowance today, loose coins rattle dully in his bag.

“I’m turning this way,” Yotaro says, pointing down the _other_ road, an uphill climb that transitioned from concrete paving to a mud path halfway. “My uncle lives on the other side.”

He thinks of Jin and Rindo, their benign smiles, and remembers to paste a large grin on his face when he waves goodbye.

“See ya!” Mamesuke says past a mouthful of cocoa puffs, waving at him.

“Remember sunscreen tomorrow!” Kyoko calls, and they both turn down the lane lined with houses.

He doesn’t wait to see them go, dropping his smile right after waving goodbye. It was two…nine times five was…forty-five, he checks, reading of the plastic face of his watch. He had a good hour before someone notices him missing at dinner, so he treks up the lonely hill, scattering cocoa puffs as he went. They bounce and roll down behind him, but he doesn’t turn. The beating sun melts the chocolate onto his hand, the small pieces sticking to his palm before falling off, but he continues until he reaches the cool shade of the trees, where the old playground stood.

A new, shinier playground was erected near their school, all bright enamel in primary colours, leaving the old one on the hill to rust and crumble in the weather. Moss sleeps on the underbelly of the slides and the rocky horses. The rubber of the tire swings are cracked open, dripping rainwater when you shake them. He sits himself on a headless plastic horse, its red head a few feet away, googly eyes staring vacantly, and scatters another handful of cocoa puffs around him. Magpies settle around him like knights around King Arthur, eating and making merry, but they fall silent when he speaks.

“Hyuse said,” Yotaro starts, “That his home wasn’t that different from ours,”

The crows caw, always fashionably late, settling beside him on the horse, eating straight from his ziplock bag of cereal, always a little greedier.

“Back home, he said, they loved their sweets,” Yotaro quotes, then stops, sniffling from that cold he got last week, “that they loved their pie, especially sweet potato pie, sort of like Earth,” he says.

More crows trail along, but they don’t touch the cocoa puffs, the bigger ones only like meat, Yotaro knows.

“But you know,” Yotaro says, tipping the bag over, the cereal bounces off the Velcro straps of his shoes and scatter onto the rubber floor of the playground around him, the birds come nearer still, a crow leans against his arm. They smell themselves on him; not their bloodlusty hunger, perhaps; but his vindictiveness, they recognize. That’s how they know he’s flock and family: They remember.

“His hometown though, they had special almonds inside, only grown in their farms,” The crow near him picks at his pocket, pulling out a seed, halved right down the middle. Its wrinkly skin was an iridescent blue, and the flesh of the almond had clear, lime green dots. The crow swallows it whole.

“Osamu, Yuma, Chika,” Yotaro says, slowly, “Tachikawa too,” He says as an afterthought, “The one always with Jin. Will you recognize them?” The birds caw all at once, and his cast shadow grows long in the dipping sun, he has to go home soon.

“Follow them, watch them, and if you see them packing again, tell me, ok?”

 Another loud cry. Yotaro straightens his arm, pointing it to the ground, then sweeps it up, quickly, in a clean line. The birds follow his signal and burst into the reddening skies. One magpie stays behind, still picking at cereal crumbs. She looks at him curiously, and pecks at his shoes, before flapping onto his shoulder.

He knows her, her prominent bald cap hard to miss in a whole tree. He saved her from a mauling a few years back, from a fat cat with sharp claws.

“You were right, Megumi,” he says, because birds love their compliments. She preens, and he slowly treks home.

x

Hyuse has never considered his future in detail, leaving it as a loose sketch in his mind, telling himself he’d clean up the lines in good time. But even as a child, he’d always look upon the Supreme Hall of Justice in awe.

It was near the core of the city, positioned right where the Dying God’s chambers were. A short, stubby building, compensated with sprawling grounds. Intentionally unintimidating, only blunt wrought iron fences (and one sleepy old guard) watching the gardens, dotted with round bushes, neatly trimmed and randomly flowering. It was a lovely structure, more concerned with comforting the wronged than striking fear upon criminals.

What a pity, then, that Hyuse’s first foray into the Supreme Hall was as an indicted criminal against his Motherland.

It was a quick and sloppy process: the contents of the communication device were incriminating enough, so the house of Veltiston had the arraignment quickly processed and Hyuse found himself in the dimly lit courtroom, facing the judge and staunchly ignoring the members of the crowd who had come to watch his judgment.

One member of the crowd was a little boy with a protruding chin, stuffing caramel bits in his mouth and dropping the wrappers onto the floor. Beside him, his mother was knitting a scarf in yellow and black, the colours of House Veltiston, barely looking up. Some stared at him, and he was sure they’d soon toss peanuts at him, egging him to perform tricks. The security guard stood with his rifle in hand, back ramrod straight, but undoubtedly asleep.

Was this court or a circus? There were rules and precedents, surely, but he knew nothing of them.

He was afforded a lawyer, a sniveling man Hyuse wouldn’t trust to defend a housewife’s stolen pie, but it was just as well. House Ellin was merely a minor house under the main house of Veltiston, and judgment was unlikely to fall in his favour anyhow. Court proceedings were merely for show and churning out more paperwork for the interns.

Her Honour of No House, the presiding judge, walks in then. A matronly woman, thick jawed and naturally furrowed brows. Still, Hyuse imagines that he sees her sharp black eyes soften at the sight of him, but, he supposes, it is the trick of the light.

“Moira of Veltiston, to the Plaintiff’s table”

Moira struts in. The crowd, which did not flinch at the Her Honour’s entrance, falls silent now, watching her horns catching the yellow fluorescents of the room. She is smiling and Hyuse remembers why they used to scare the children into obedience with her name.

“Moira of Veltiston,” the judge resounds, “Please turn to page 32 of your Affidavit”

Moira does so.

 

It begins.

 

“It states here that you are representing the House of Veltiston in indicting Hyuse of Ellin of perfidy against the Holy Nation of Aftokrator”

“Yes your Honour”

“Plaintiff, present your evidence,”

Hyuse’s feet hurt, the boy is chewing loudly, the fluorescents are swooning, dripping yellow all about the room.

 

It proceeds

 

Moira pulls out documents like a magician with rabbits: the image of Replica, wrapped in what was undoubtedly a Border issue jacket, records of his laboratory in the Ellin’s research facility, video footage of Osamu wearing the jacket previously, the cross-section of replica where he was stored previously in the main house.

The crowd seemed itching to clap and cheer with each new piece of evidence, and Hyuse doesn’t doubt that they would have, were it not for decorum. Yellow is everywhere, like those ugly ceremonial jackets, in the sclera of eyes, his fingernails, his-

Another slip of paper is presented. Two sticks of information, the ones he saw in Ninomiya’s hands.

“These information disks were stolen and last traced to Ellin, we have right to believe that it is within the trion soldier”

“Objection your honour” his lawyer says,

“Overruled”

“The missing information are of national security. If Hyuse of Ellin wishes to prove his innocence -“

He’s got _such a headache._

 

“Objection”

“Sustained”

“My client is innocent until proven guilty, your honour, it is not the plaintiff’s place to order my client to prove his innocence,”

The judge nods, and the reporters jot down the proceedings. People stretch in their seats, it is enough now, almost over. The yellow bites him between the toes, the yellow infects him.

Yotaro used to inspect his horns and tell him of an animal with similar antlers. Goats, Yotaro would say, and Hyuse would take offence, for his horns were surely worth more dignity. But he sees now there is little difference. Goats, Humans, Beasts, Neighbours, Scapegoats, Comrade, Sacrificial lamb. The information in Meeden and the blame on Hyuse. Veltiston had enough reason to visit Meeden again.

 _War, Danger, Yotaro, Yotaro_, Hyuse thinks, past the room of yellow, back in Tamakoma base. Even if he is excused of perfidy, his heart is a traitor, flourishing elsewhere in another land.

“Permission to speak, your honour,” Hyuse says, blinded yellow, he sees no faces, did he ever have one?

“Objection!” the plaintiff calls beside Moira.

“Overruled”

“Your honour, allocution is not permitted for minor hous-“

“The court has taken note of plaintiff’s behaviour; Order in the court”

“I have been a loyal servant of our holy land my whole life,” Hyuse starts. His blood is yellow now, he is sure, he is golden yellow like the piss and pus of the scum that stood where he stands, it does not matter what he says, but he must.

“I have acted rashly in light of recent events, but in the best interests of our land, to strengthen bonds with Meeden. I ask for pardon in light of my past loyalty to this land.”

“Is that all?”

Hyuse nods.

“Then we will proceed to the final ruling.”

The judge begins, and Hyuse is yellow behind his eyelids. He can hear the document in her clipped voice.

“Hyuse of Ellin,

We find you guilty of breaching security between houses, and abetting the trade of a war prisoner.

You will spend eight years in detention, committed to hard labour.

We pardon you of removing your horns. You will be sentenced to ten thousand hours of National Trion Supplementation (NTS) in exchange.

Our sentence is lightened, taking into account your previous contributions to our holy land. This was, to quote yourself, an act of rashness, but a grave one nonetheless. You hold great potential, and we hope you will seek to realize that when you return.”

The boy has fallen asleep, drooling yellow caramel-

“And as for your name,”

Hyuse stiffens. Families had no reason to keep disloyal, troublesome charity cases. He would be abandoned. It was over, his lord – he could never protect him now. He is dug out a nostril with a finger, sickening yellow and flicked away -

“Permission to speak, your honour” his lawyer says

The judge nods.

“The Lord of Ellin has decreed that Hyuse of Ellin will remain a member of our esteemed family. He will not be stripped of his place”

“Very well,” The judge says.

Hyuse looks at his lawyer, his ugly yellow coat. There is warmth on his hand, and he realizes the lawyer is holding him.

He hears a loud slam of the gavel, and the world orientates itself again. The yellow is sucked back into the lighting, and Hyuse can see the red of his cold fingers, the blue of his prison uniform.

Moira looks him in the eye, and slides a finger over her heart – down diagonally left, up, then down again, diagonally right. The common symbol from the training grounds of their youth: _I do not aim for the heart._

“It’s not personal,” she mouths, smiling, just so he’s sure, turning. The reporters fly after her as the crowd files out.

Hyuse of Ellin is led away in chains.

 

 

When the room is empty, Her Honour of No House leans back and spits.

“Pathetic,”

“Yes, Veltiston is truly aggressive in their attempts to secure the Lord of Ellin as their sacrifice.” Her aide replies, sweeping the paperwork into her file.

“I hate this job,” Her Honour says, “I’ve heard of that child, tutored by Viza himself; it’s more likely that he’d slaughter all of the Great Space than turn against the Holy Motherland”

She laughs, suddenly, to her aide’s shock

“Your honour?”

“No, I was just recalling an old friend,” Her Honour says, “He had the side effect to see through lies; always said that I was better off using it than he was. I wonder about him now.”

x

Life goes on. Osamu is home, with bad news, but home nonetheless. His toothbrush is next to Yuma’s, dinner tables were set for three, and the bed was twice as warm.

Except when Yuma wakes, it isn’t.

He wakes to the sound of nothing. Even the birds are still sleeping, the watchful ones that always roost in their trees and shit all over their yard.

He looks to his right, blearily. It isn’t the sun glowing by the side of the room, but the small desk lamp on Osamu’s table, angled away so it didn’t wake him, presumably. Behind a stack of books Yuma sees Osamu, the focused profile of his face, still in his pyjamas and quietly poring over his schoolwork.

He’s missed him, the way they keep talking after saying “good night” for the fifth time in bed, the way Osamu slides him the celery during dinner when his mother turns to watch the television, the shower always set to scalding hot water because Osamu hated the cold more than anything. Extra shoes by the door, the glasses by the alarm clock. Osamu always holds his breath while concentrating, he breathes deeply every minute. Yuma’s missed that as well.

“Osamu,” he calls, softly.

Osamu looks over, backlit against the desk lamp, but Yuma sees his sleepy fondness, the sharp glint of his glasses frames that shifts as Osamu stretches and turns to face him.

“It’s still early,” He whispers back, “Go back to sleep,”

“I’m not still dreaming?” Yuma asks, dopey smile half-pressed into his pillow, “so angels really _do_ exist,” he reaches out to pull at Osamu’s hand, shifting nearer to kiss him along his knuckles.

“No, not dreaming” Osamu rolls his eyes, “just deluded,” but he runs a thumb over Yuma’s cheekbone, tender and soft. “Did I wake you?”

“Wish you did,” Yuma says, sitting up slowly. Osamu watches as Yuma’s hair curl up like cotton thread in a fire, black softness sticking up this way and that. “Need to fit in as much training as I can,”

“Yes,” Osamu says. Training, Fighting, Rank wars, Civil wars, Bloody wars. It’s too early to talk of war, quite literally. They were still left in the dark, Kido keeping his faction silent until further notice.

Frustrating to Agent Mikumo, the jilted captain, but a sigh of relief for Osamu the civilian. Now he’s got time to be frenetically studying like a college student, to whisk eggs and sift flour with his mother, to be coaxed back to his bed with his Yuma.

Now the sunlight is filtering in, an orange pink that paints Osamu rosy. Yuma thinks this is how his captain ought to look all the time, dyed pink like a skinned knee, all raw red of sliced marbled salmon. A paper-thin membrane from bleeding — fragile, translucent — he can't bear to look, he can't bear to look away.

Yuma conjures a menu of words, with choices like:

 

-I love you

or

-You’re beautiful

or

-Why? Why did you keep quiet, keep your secrets, your pain –

 

Yuma doesn’t want to know, he realizes, why Osamu kept quiet about the classroom bullies, how much more weight he bears alone, for surely the answer was, as always, that he worried for Yuma, that the stress after the operation was/that he didn’t think Yuma could handle/that he didn’t trust Yuma to/that in the end, Yuma couldn’t do anything about/that Yuma was useless out of the battlefield/that Yuma was a burden/that Yuma-

“Do you think,” Yuma says instead, “we could make waffles without waking up your mum?”

Osamu laughs, Yuma allows himself to see Osamu laugh, rose-tinted and innocent. He won’t ask, he won’t.

“I’ll get the pan heated up, you go wash up, and we’ll find out,” Osamu says, leaving the room quietly.

Yuma’s pushing the covers off himself when the study drawer starts talking.

“ **Yuma”** The first drawer squeaks.

Yuma slides out the smooth drawer, peering inside. Mini-replica, hovering over his small cushion, where he’d lain for the past five years, peers back at him.

“ **Yuma…”** he says, plopping back onto the cushion, “ **Yuma…”**

“Replica,” Yuma croaks, cradling mini-replica, cushion and all, in both his hands, “Thank god, Replica,”

“ **Yuma…”** the voice calls again, a digital whisper, “ **I found a way, I found a-“**

Yuma hushes him, but Replica continues.

“ **I found a way to bring him back, Yuma…Yuma..”**

“Him?” Yuma says, daring to hope,

An old recording plays, jarred and staticky.

“- **drunk frog swi-swimming - -**

**keep your arm straight when you throw- - hush little**

**baby, little baby- -**

**HUSH**

**Yuma,                                 my little                                  Yuma,**

**watch him for me, Replica—A-a-aaa**

**a**

**a**

**a  my**

**little**

**boy little**

**Yuma, Yuma**

**”**

“Dad,” Yuma says, Replica sounds close to tears.

 

“ **Of course, Yugo, I won’t let anything happen to - -**

**FISH PORRIDGE F---OR**

**BABIEShushlittle baby hushhushhush**

**Yugo, I’m so sorry I’m sosorrysosorrysosorry**

**Yuma….Yuma….**

**Our family I found a way I found**

**A**

**WAY  - -”**

Replica falls.

The birds chirp outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Hyuse's scene was inspired by Charlotte Perkins Gilman's "The yellow wallpaper". The metaphors are only going to get weirder from here on out, I'm afraid.


End file.
